Snippets from the Seventh Year
by dress without sleeves
Summary: Going backwards in time, Harry's 7th year in a series of one shots from the POVs of all the different Potterverse characters. Chapter Twenty: Hogwarts' professors without their students. "The path is hard and lonely and there is no end in sight."
1. The End

**Author's Notes:** Before any of you comment, I _know_ that this is the last chapter; I'm doing the entire story backwards, simply because I am super scandalous.

All my other chaptered's are going on hiatus until this is finished – I'm really dedicated to and proud of it, so that's that. I hope you all enjoy!

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Julia Alvarez_

_Who taught me that time flows the way I want it to._

**Chapter Twenty-Five: The End**

_What do we do now?_

Countless injured. Thousands dead. Hundreds orphaned.

_What do we do now?_

Sometimes Ron doesn't think that they will ever recover; sometimes he fears that recuperation runs all too smoothly. He sees them in the shadows – friends and enemies alike – staring at him with their dead eyes and asking, _Will we be forgotten?_

They will rebuild; cement upon ash. This new world will sink, Ron knows, and be forever caught in the rubble. But this doesn't depress him – instead he feels a strange sort of optimism rising in his chest, to know that the dust that clings to the sides of their indestructible foundations will haunt for the centuries, and the names and faces of those he has loved will not disappear into textbooks that only Hermione's descendants will read.

---

_What do we do now?_

She wakes, more often than not, screaming. More than once, Ron or Harry has sprinted into her room, wands at the ready, only to find her bravely fighting tears, all the lights beaming and wrapping her in their warmth.

She struggles to look at Harry, because her eyes always travel to his forehead, the thin line that extends from the tip of where his scar used to be to his ear. He has already promised that she acted rightly, that he is _proud_ of her strength and he feels guilty for putting her in such a position.

But she cannot push that moment from her mind; the look on Ron's face, Harry's terrible, terrible scream, and her own horror as she whispered the words to destroy the Horcrux but also, perhaps, her best friend.

That he survived seems somehow trivial; she can only reflect on the heart of the matter, the simple and revealing facts: _Ron had not been able to do it, and yet _she _had._ He had not been able to inflict such pain – he had not been able to risk sacrificing his best friend for the good of the world, and it stretched so far into the depths of his loyalty that he could not even raise his wand.

And yet she, who had always shrunk from inflicting any sort of lasting harm, had taken aim and forced her lips around the letters until they stuck together and formed this catastrophic word and issued purple light from her wand.

Ron takes her hand and whispers, "All right, 'Mione?" As if nothing has happened, as if they have always been this way.

The tiniest of genuine smiles crops up around her lips as she looks out of the window. The guilt will fade, she knows, with time. But until then, she clings to her grief, using its buoyancy to keep her afloat.

After all, she reasons, it is better to drown in guilt than never feel guilty at all.

---

_What do we do now?_

He wishes now that they hadn't done away with executions. He would rather suffer the eternal fires of purgatory than this endless waiting – for what, he does not know. Perhaps some sort of a sign; a vision; a dream; anything to give him validation. To let him know that he did right by her, and that she was, in her own way, proud of him.

"I was born at the best of times, only to die at the worst," she had whispered to him that night, gently kissing his forehead and raising her chin proudly. "A Black is never afraid."

He had frowned, watching her delicate fingers turn the door handle and feeling as though everything was about to explode. "And a Malfoy?" He'd asked bitterly.

Narcissa had not turned, but he could hear her sardonic smile and watched her back straighten, if only a little. "Ask you're father," she'd said, and then was gone.

For so long, he had tried to please them both. But it was clear that he could not; he does not regret the decisions that he's made, despite the endless churning in his stomach as his "trial" descends upon him, despite the emptiness of Malfoy Manor, now occupied only by himself and the shadows and the echoes of voices he never thought he'd miss.

Life was like a game of Exploding Snap, he decided as the hail came down and flattened the last remnants of his mother's precious garden. Sometimes you manage to get by undamaged … and others, the deck explodes between your fingers.

That's luck, he supposes.

---

_What do we do now?_

She feels like a ghost, because everybody treats her like one. Every time she enters the room, their eyes fly to her face and surprise registers, as though they are all thinking, _She came back?_

She does not tell them what Heaven looks like, because she does not think that they would understand.

Sometimes her dreams return her mind to that moment, and she is both glad and afraid. She can see her body and she can hear the warm voices of those she has lost calling her name, and she always considers trying to wake but never really bothers.

"I love you," Harry had whispered to her body, his voice not just his own but also her brothers' and her mother's and her father's. She could see them; Ron was fighting against the bile in his throat and Fred was crying and George had fallen to his knees and Bill stared dumbly while Charlie railed at the world and her mother collapsed against her father who stood erect as only a man whose entire life has ended can. And those words wrapped around her soul and tugged until she fell back to them all from the clouds and opened her eyes.

Her sacrifice, it seemed, served almost the same purpose as his mother's, all those years ago. Voldemort tried one last time to kill him, and Harry watched the light come, half-hoping to die as he thought of them – of her, of Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley and Ron and Hermione and Remus and Sirius and his heart had swelled so large with the love and the sorrow he felt for them, and he half-hoped that he would die. But he did not; something in him exploded and the curse died on Voldemort's lips before he could fully complete it. The pathetic stream of green rebounded against whatever it was in Harry's heart that it could not bear to touch, attacking instead a now mortal Voldemort and ending their battle the way it had begun.

Whenever they are together, Harry has a constant hold on her, as though securing her to his side. Before the war it might have bothered her, but now she just clings to him and lets his new and desperate need for her drip into her heart and fill her to overflowing. She needs him as badly as he needs her, and through this strange sort of love she can slowly begin to stand on her own.

The world feels strangely new, as though they are all infants starting at the beginning, wonder in every sunrise and a friend in every passing stranger.

_That_'s what they had fought for, she thinks. This newfound understanding between them – all of them, every single person that stood on that battlefield together and killed together and died together and lost together and felt victory seep into their very bones.

---

_What do we do now?_

They have chosen to make an album for the child that grows in her belly. It will be honest, they decided, outlining both the good and the terrible. They will discuss those terrible weeks when she lived with her Aunt in London, and he remained home in – as it seemed at the time – that unbearably claustrophobic house. Bill does not want to shield their baby from the truth – he wants him or her to know everything, to know that its parents loved from the beginning and loved at the end, but there were potholes the size of craters in the middle that was okay.

Fleur does not think that she could love Bill the way that she does if she had not once hated him, if she had not blamed him for the terrible thoughts in her head and her heart. Every night, she dreams of Gabrielle, her soft little hands reaching between the bars of that cell beneath the ground, clutching at Fleur's fingers and sobbing, _You have come, you have come!_ And when she wakes, Bill's soft breathing calms her rapid heart and soothes her aching head.

She has developed a liking for steak and that somehow feels like loyalty.

Fleur rests a hand on her belly and feels joy in her heart, knowing that the little life inside will grow old, will grow to be one hundred, and will feel a little sad but mostly just detached from this war, that he or she will hold _Mamá's_ hand when she cries on the anniversary of Voldemort's defeat every year, but will never cry with her.

It is bittersweet, she thinks, because her child will never know fear as she has known, will never known loss as she has known, but perhaps – here, she glances at Bill – will never know love as she has known, either.

---

_What do we do now?_

It was a struggle in the beginning, to look at Luna and not think: _I am not enough._ And he knows that he isn't, that he never will be enough – not handsome enough, not quirky enough, not clever enough, and _certainly_ not smart enough – for her.

He is grateful that she does not seem to realize this.

And slowly, in that unsettlingly honest manner of hers, she has begun to show him that it doesn't _matter_ what he looks like or what he believes or how smart he is. She describes it as her "doing vs. being" theory, and explains that she doesn't care if he believes that Crumple-Horned Snorkacks exist or not, but the fact that he cares enough worry is what's important.

He still doesn't quite understand this and has resigned himself to the knowledge that he probably never will. Sometimes he finds himself not even really caring, simply enjoying her presence and listening to her babble. It's a soft river of words that seem to relieve the wounds inside, soothing his sadness and salvaging his soul.

"It's okay to be angry sometimes, you know," Luna had told him, referring to his parents. "Sometimes I get so angry that I feel like I'm about to burst. Would you like an Acid Pop?"

Just like that, as though they were discussing hobbies or Quidditch teams.

But it is this airiness that draws him to her; she is everything that he will never be, and so she fits into the parts of him that he could never fill on his own.

It's funny, he thinks – it is craziness that he always hated, and yet it is craziness that kept him whole when the world and everything else fell to pieces.

---

_What do we do now?_

They have asked him this over and over again, as though he should know the answer. But he doesn't know, because he doesn't want to think about the future at all. He does not want to dream about those beautiful and untouchable things that seem unreal to him – things like a twentieth birthday, a wife, a family, a routine.

Those things will come, he reasons, or they will not – at the moment, he is strangely indifferent. For the first time in his life, the injuries on the inside are less than those on the out, except for sometimes, and at those moments when his guilt and his relief and his incredulity become too much to bear, there are those standing by to laugh and smile and sooth the pressure from his skull.

The day after he kills Voldemort, he dreams that his mother is standing by his bedside, smiling down at him, and he knows that she knows and she is grateful and proud and sad.

Ron and Hermione have finally crossed the bridge that took them years to build, and he knows that in time she will be able to smile at Harry without trembling lips, and that she will look at him and her eyes will not travel to the new scar that she was forced to create.

Every moment with Ginny feels stolen, as though at God will suddenly realize that he's missing an angel and come to claim her. But she is not repulsed by his neediness; she seems to welcome it, crave it even, and sometimes he is sure that she is just as afraid that they are living on borrowed time.

Peace is not something that Harry is used to, but it feels as though he has lived this way his whole life. He is surprised by how easily he falls into the routine of rebuilding and starting over.

He went to Vernon's funeral, and though his aunt would not speak to him, he knew that she was glad he was there.

He reaches up and gently traces his new scar. It does not feel like a burden, as the other did; instead, he is almost proud of his distinction, because although he does not want the fans and the media and the hassle, he knows that for once, for _once_, he deserves it.

_What do we do now?_ A reporter asked him, camping outside a clean and comfortable number twelve, Grimmauld Place when he came home.

"Look, you see, life is like a river, and the war is like a dam," he impatiently, unable to just brush passed. "And we were stuck for a while, but . . . a river has to flow." The reporter didn't seem to understand and he clarified, "Just give it time."

"So you're saying . . . life goes on?" The reporter asked.

Harry smiled, tucking his hands into his pockets and gazing out across the street. Several Muggle houses had been destroyed; the neighborhood was half the size that it used to be. He could clearly see the final battle in his mind; this was where he had stood when Voldemort tried to kill him for the last time; this was where Ginny lay bleeding, lay dead; this is where Remus killed Peter – revenge for Harry's father, for Harry's mother, for Sirius, for himself; and this was where everything fell apart and came together in one single instant.

"It rather does, doesn't it?" He asked.


	2. The Odds

**Author's Notes: **This one is short, I know. But it didn't seem like there was a whole lot more to say.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For B-Zhang_

_Because she's glorious._

**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Odds**

Never before have one thousand enemies been so still. Never before have one thousand hearts beat as one. Never before have two thousand eyes been glued to the same spot so fervently.

Never, Ginny thinks as she watches Draco Malfoy raise his wand, have one hundred milli-seconds passed so slowly.

Fifty-fifty chance. He will scream the killing curse or he will not. There is no in-between.

The odds are against her, that she will make it on time, that she will angle herself just right so that she might absorb whatever light comes out of his wand.

Fifty-fifty chance. Live or die.

She takes a step forward, and in her mind she can see the Burrow, with the little kitchen and the light that drips through the window to pool at her ankles. She can see the lake and the tree-house and she hears her own laughter falling alongside the reddish-brown leaves. She can see her mother knitting and her father tinkering and her brothers laughing, laughing.

She can see Harry, unaware of her approach, unaware of his classmate shouting at him.

She can see Harry, kneeling beside her in the Chamber of Secrets, clutching at his arm – _it's nothing, Ginny, just a little scratch._

Two for two; he saved her life, and she will save his. Now they're even.

Fifty-fifty chance …

The light is not green. She is grateful for that, counting the milliseconds as though they were hours. _Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five …_

She can feel the burst of energy in her chest, knocking her backwards, and it is almost as though she is as her laughter was, falling from the golden oak to land softly on the ground, buried in layers of snow.

Ginny hears a crack – her head? Her neck? Her legs? She doesn't know. She glances down and can see herself, sprawled at odd angles, a little river of blood trickling down into her closed eyes. It seems, in her haste, she chose a rock for a pillow. Not, she thinks vaguely, the best idea – red liquid has colored its grey and sinks into the dirt.

There is more light, and screams. She can see her mother and father and brothers and Hermione and everyone is staring at her, laying there motionless.

Fifty-fifty chance … win or lose.

She looks at Harry, who is looking at her, and his breathing has stopped. She feels her heart reach for him, as she floats higher, and higher, and higher … Voldemort aims his wand but Harry isn't even looking at him, just at her, at her closed eyes and face that is splattered with her own blood.

_I'll have a wicked headache when I wake up,_ she thinks, before realizing that she'll never wake at all.

There is a stream of green light; Harry turns, just slightly, to stare it down.


	3. The Final Horcrux

**Author's Notes: **I know that they're shorter than the first/last one, but keep in mind that The End was the "final" chapter, so it's going to be longer by default.

Anyway, for all of you who have seen, and have loved, _Never Been Kissed:_ this chapter is rufus. It is my favorite to date.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Julia_

_To prove that knowing it all has its drawbacks. _

**Chapter Twenty-Three: The Final Horcrux**

Darkness and clouds blot out the sun, but Harry can still see the horizon. He shivers, clutching the doorframe ever tighter as he stands in the place where it all started … every wrong turn he's ever been forced to endure … it all began here, at this place, with a lonely woman and her cruel father.

Ron and Hermione are just behind him, their soft breathing an almost soothing lullaby that nearly fits in this place – that almost distracts him its terrible, terrible past.

But the unmistakably heavy air mutes that last dot of perfection, and he can't help but be reminded of the appalling things that have happened here.

"What should we look for?" Ron asks quietly. "An enchanted dog bowl once owned by Gryffindor or something?"

Hermione's breath hitches. Harry can feel her eyes on his back, sliding along his neck and to his head. He feels her gaze through his hair and his scull until it bursts out of his forehead and glances back, taking in his scar and frowning deeply.

"What's wrong?" He asks, not turning around. Her gaze snaps back through him and into her eyes.

"Nothing," she lies. He wonders if she's as tired as he is, and if she wants to go home as badly. "It's just that I … I have this theory and … "

He _does_ turn now, eyebrows raised in interest. "On the Horcrux?" He asks.

"Yes," she says cautiously, and he can't help but noticed that her eyes – Hermione's eyes, which have never before strayed so high – have snapped up to his scar and can't seem to tear away.

There's a pause, and Ron finally prompts, "Well?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to say anything until I'm certain," she murmurs. "I don't want to … " her voice trails off, and Harry can't help but think how funny it sounds; almost as if she meant it that way; almost as if she was trying to tell him something by not telling him anything.

---

"It's almost cozy in here," Ron says, after they've been stuck in the little shack for four days. Hermione has locked herself in the bathroom, thinking, trying to figure things out – sometimes Harry thinks that he hears her crying softly, but he's never quite certain. Still, Ron is always glancing at the door worriedly, always making jokes so loud that Harry's sure it's just to cover the cracking in his voice.

Harry thinks that in this way, Ron is just like his sister – the more scared he is, the braver he becomes.

"I'm not sure I would go that far," Harry jokes. "It still needs a little something. Some curtains, perhaps."

He finds that this easy, dark humor helps. It puts everything into perspective: things are rotten. But there is laughter in everything – he just needs to find it.

---

He wakes in the middle of the night, and it is as though he has never slept. He stands and walks to the window; looking out in to the skinny trees and the dead grass, he can see out of the corner of his eye a haggard-looking woman standing beside him, her eyes streaming with dry tears and he knows that it is the woman that caused this genocide.

He wants to reach out and say, _It's not your fault_. But as he turns, she fades into the wall, leaving nothing but empty space.

---

Even Ron is quiet by the second week. He sits by the bathroom door, knocking only occasionally to give Hermione her meals. When she pokes her head out, Harry gets a sick feeling in her stomach; she is pale and disheveled and dark circles line her eyes. He wants to reach out and tell her to _stop_, to not figure it out because _her_ health is more important to him than the whole world.

But she moves too quickly, shutting the door before he can even open his mouth.

"She's sick, Harry," Ron says, his tone low. "We have to get her out of that room."

He doesn't say anything, just looks out the window at the beautiful and broken world.

---

There is no mistaking her crying this time. She has tried to stifle them – Harry dreads to know with what – but the sound seeps under the door and into the air, filling his mouth and nose.

Ron knocks several times before finally throwing his weight against the weak little door and tumbling into the tiny bathroom. She's made herself a little corner, and that's where she lies, curled into a tiny ball. The food they've been trying to feed her fills the bathtub, and she is unhealthily skinny. She doesn't even look up as Ron rushes to her side and scoops her into his arms.

"Hermione," he cries frantically, "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

She flings her arms around his neck and buries into his chest, her whole body shivering. "No," she whispers through her tears. He tries to set her on her feet but she won't let him and he looks over his head at Harry, his face devastated and wracked with fear.

Harry approaches slowly, knowing suddenly that this is somehow his fault. "Hermione," he says slowly, trying to distract her from her misery, "Did you figure it out? The Horcrux?"

That sets her off again and she pushes away from Ron, dashing passed both of them out of the little house and into the front yard, where she falls to her knees and beats the ground with her fists. "It's not _fair_," she howls at the trees. "What did we ever do to you?"

The boys watch from the door, neither sure what to do. She quiets after a few moments and turns slowly, getting to her feet and walking as a zombie towards them. Ron takes a step toward her. "Hey – "

But Hermione, her cheeks still glittering with tears, flings her arms around Harry's shoulders and whispers in his ear, "Don't you see, Harry? We've already found the last Horcrux. We've had it all along."

She reaches up and gently traces his scar.


	4. The Metaphor

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For me_

_Because I remind myself of Neville._

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Metaphor**

Neville takes a deep breath. And then another. And then another. And then another until he is sure it appeared that he's hyperventilating.

Sure enough, Luna peers at him over the glasses she has taken to wearing; it made his heart skip because she reminds him just a little too much of Dumbledore. He is tempted to ask, "Would you like a Lemon Drop?" simply to see her reaction, but he feels that, given that he can't deliver on the offer, she might find it a little rude.

"Neville," Luna says, scrunching her nose up the way she does when she is thinking particularly hard on a subject, "What is wrong with your lungs?"

He shakes his head, choking on whatever words he was going to say. "Oh – uh – nothing – I'm just a little bit – er – allergic to … air." He winces, looking hastily away from her and out the window that they stand beside. Luna liked to look down at the street and make up stories about the people passing by. He admires her creativity – sometimes she would talk for an hour about one person, describing their family and their personality and certain events that shaped the way they lived their lives.

His stories usually went – "Er … that person, uhm … likes cheese a lot and … has seven cousins."

"Look at that one!" Luna cries abruptly, pressing her finger against the window so hard that her knuckle turns white. "You see her, in the red hat? Her name is Emmelliana Buoronnati, and she's related to the famous Renardo Buoronnati – you know, the inventor of the cauldron? – and has a wonderful knack at … Herbology. Like you, Neville! In fact, she's a lot like you. She's very shy and quite but also insightful once she gets going. And she's very brave and clever and very, _very_ pretty."

She brakes off, looking pleased with herself. Neville blushes, catching the compliment in her words. He hardly thought of himself as 'insightful' or 'brave', but who is he to contradict?

She turns to him. "You're turn," she orders.

He pauses. "Er – all right …" He gazes out for several minutes, rapidly putting together a decent story before choosing a passerby. "That one," he decides, aiming his finger at a tall, leggy lady with wispy blonde hair. "That's – uhm – Lorelei … Luxembourg … wait, no, that's a country – drat – " he stutters, rubbing his hands over his face. "All right. Sorry. That's Lorelei Loftenburger, and she is … twenty-seven years old."

Luna nods. "I could tell," she says confidentially. "By the way she walked."

"Right," he answers noncommittally, glancing over at her. "Well, Lorelei is very … passionate about what she believes, even when some people think that it's crazy. And she's very smart, too, so smart that she blows most of her friends out of the water, it's just that they don't bother to see passed her out-there ideas into the insightful person that she is." As he speaks, he begins to gather speed, gesturing with his hands and pacing across the floor. "And she's very kind and very open and we could all take a leaf from her book, because she's not only beautiful but she's so empathetic and _truthful._ No one tells the truth like she does, because everyone is so busy trying to hide who they really are that they don't bother to look at who everyone _else_ is. But not Lu … Lorelei. Lorelei _knows_ who she is and she's _comfortable_ with that person and so she can look at others and see who they are, deep down, even when they're shy and bumbling idiots, like me!"

He brakes off, breathing heavily, and Luna cocks her head at him before smiling broadly. "Why, Neville!" She cries, "That was the best you've ever done! It was so detailed!"

He blushes. "I had really great inspiration," he mumbles. "Luna – "

"Would you like an Acid Pop?" He trails off and takes the candy from her hand, sighing. "I've grown quite attached to them. The sourness really takes the edge off."

"Er … right … look, Luna, I wanted to talk to you about something." She turns to look at him, pushing her glasses up her nose so that she looked a bit like Professor Trelawney.

"Sure. What would you like to talk about? I have a whole list of subjects I find interesting to discuss, if you need a hand."

He shakes his head, smiling dryly. "No, no, I think – see, the thing is, I actually wanted to make a confession. The truth is, I …" his throat becomes dry and he shuts his mouth, gathering as much courage as he can muster. "I really fancy – "

"Luna? Luna?" Her head snaps up and she looks over his shoulder. He turns as well when her face lit into something more than her name could ever give her credit for; she is not the moon, he thinks, stealing light from the sun. She _is_ the sun, and she gladly gave herself to the moon.

She bolts passed him to the man standing in the hallway. "_Dad!_" She shrieks. "You're here!"

"Yes – Luna – " she hurls herself into his arms and they stand like that for a while. Neville watches, growing embarrassed. He can't hear the words, but their soft murmurings are probably along the lines of 'I love you' and 'I missed you' and 'How are you feeling?'

He tucks his hands into his pockets, turning to look out of the window again. Of _course_ he waited until it was too late to tell her. Of _course_ her father would heal just at the moment when he was about to admit that he fancied her. It would be too easy if he could just get through _one moment_ of his life without –

He feels a soft tap on his shoulder. Luna is behind him, smiling as though her face would split, holding her father's hand. "Dad, this is Neville Longbottom. He's very nice, you know."

"I do not, but I certainly believe you," Mr. Lovegood replies, sticking out his free hand. "Mr. Longbottom, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"You too, sir," he mumbles to the floor. "Luna has been great company."

"Who are you waiting for?" Her father asks.

He shakes his head, shrugging. "No one – "

"His parents are in the psych ward too, Dad. They're like you – they were tortured into insanity to save Neville."

He has never heard it put so bluntly, but he finds he doesn't really mind. Instead, a flower of pride blossoms in his chest. "That's right, sir," he says loudly.

"Well, excellent," Mr. Lovegood says. "Now, Luna, if you don't mind, I am eager to get home…"

"Of course. I'll see you here tomorrow Neville? At the same time as always?"

He blinks at her. "What? But – now that you're father can remember you -- ?"

She smiles serenely. "Oh, he's been able to for some time now," she tells him unashamedly. "But he's only checking out today. I just wanted to keep seeing you."

This news throws Neville and he has to sit down. "You – you did?"

"Of course. I find you very sweet and funny."

He doesn't say anything, until he suddenly blurts, despite the fact that her father was standing right there, "I fancy you."

She shakes free of Mr. Longbottom and kisses his cheek. "Oh, I know," she tells him cheerfully. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Neville. Come on, Dad."

He watches her go, his mind reeling.

Just when he thinks he'd cottoned on, she went and surprised him again… he smiles, and doesn't really mind.


	5. The Here Wolf

**Author's Notes: **Short and sweet, but I felt like I had to post _something._

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Eric_

_The King of Dirty Jokes_

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Here Wolf**

"I've been thinking," she says one day over tea, "And I've decided that you and I are going to tell McGonagall to bugger off all the way to hell."

He blinks at her over his tea cup and then allows a small smile to curl his lips. "Are we?" He asks calmly. "Whatever for?"

She glares at his amused tone and raises her chin stubbornly. "For making you stay with _him_," she tells him, so fiercely that he sits back and studies her. She sits upright, clearly agitated, her grip on her teacup so severe that he's afraid she will crack it. Tonks' hair is mousy and brown, her heart-shaped face twisted into an ugly scowl.

He sighs, leaning into the warm steam that twirls and dips through the air effortlessly. "Well," he says slowly, "That might be a bit difficult to do, since she'll probably hex you silent before you can finish the word 'bugger'."

"Remus," she scolds sharply, and he shrugs. "I'm being serious. You hate it, you can't _stand_ it and it's not healthy! You're too pale, too thin, and too tired all the time and I'm worried about you! You need a vacation!"

"From war?" He asks mildly. "Yes, that would be very nice. I'll just pop over to Voldemort's and ask, shall I?"

His voice is not tainted with sarcasm, but she frowns at him anyway. "Of course not from war, I'm not compl_etely_ naïve, you know." He doesn't say anything, and after several minutes she sighs. "I just hate what it does to you," she whispers, staring hard at her coffee. He smiles – she looks nothing like him, but sometimes she says things that spark his memory and startle him so badly that he looks around for Sirius. "What?" She snaps, embarrassed by his silence.

"Tonks," he tells her quietly, "I don't mind doing what I'm doing, not if it helps the Order in the long run."

"The long run," she snorts derisively. "The short term is just as important, you know, and maybe even more important because if you fail at the short term than there won't _be_ a long term, now will there?" She brakes off and then looks away, out of the window and out onto the deserted street below her flat. "I just wish that you didn't have to put yourself through this."

Remus sighs, careful with his words. Tonks doesn't like to get personal and is often very dangerous when she did. "Do you know how I get myself through the day?" He asks finally, taking a chance and tipping her chin so that she had to look at him.

"Cheering Charms," She suggests dryly and leaning into his hand.

He sends her a pointed look and shakes his head. "No. I think about…don't laugh…I think about you. I think about how if I _don't_ do this, if I put my own happiness before the duty that I'm obligated to perform, then one day it might be _you_ that develops an addiction to raw meat. Tonks…I know you don't like to talk about it but…you _are_ much younger than me – don't look at me like that, it's true. You have so much more life ahead of you than I do, and I'm willing – I'm _more_ than willing – to sacrifice a little bit so that you might enjoy it more fully." He smiles, a little embarrassed. "And anyway, it's much more cheerful to think about you then whatever the other wolves are discussing. You make every place feel like…here."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "Here?" She asks. "As in, my flat?"

He laughs and shakes his head, removing his hand and leaning against the counter, taking a sip of tea. "No," he tells her casually, "As in…thinking about you, and being with you, makes every place feel like somewhere I belong. I haven't felt like that since I attended Hogwarts."

He notices, with a small sense of horror, that her chin is starting to tremble. "Oh, Merlin…_Tonks…_"

She shakes her head, sniffing and turning so that he is staring at her back. "I can't help it! I _hate_ it when you do that," she tells him angrily.

"Do what?"

"Say the right thing!"

He smiles, wrapping arms around her shoulders and resting his chin on the top of her head. "Well, I'll try to say the wrong thing more often, then," he promises, and she gives him a watery laugh before turning around and kissing him.

"You're stupid and have an insufferable nobility complex," she accuses, "but I like you."

He grins, and knows that he had a very long, very pleasant night ahead of him.


	6. The L Word

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For the cutest boy I know_

**Chapter Twenty: The L Word**

Ron stretches out on the long red couch, peering around Grimmauld Place's living room appreciatively. After living here for a few months, the place is really getting an almost…homey feel to it. Hermione's constant cleaning probably contributes a lot, but Ron can't help but feel fond of the stray shirt strewn across the floor, the three empty tea cups on the coffee table, and the slightly mismatched chair in the kitchen that Harry bought so that they could all sit at the counter together.

Somehow, these things make it feel like someone belongs here.

"You know, if you're so bored you could come help me." Hermione's voice drifts over from the kitchen doorway, where she stands with a piece of parchment in one hand, a book in the other, and a quill behind her ear.

Ron laughs. "Hmmm, research," he comments, an amused lilt in his voice. "And _how_ exactly would that rid me of my boredom?"

She rolls her eyes, coming to sit in the matching chair and dropping her book onto the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Won-Won, I forgot that your brain can only handle so much before it goes into overkill," she teases lightly. He winces at the nickname and shakes his head, shifting so that he is sitting up straight.

Hermione returns to her research, ignoring him completely so that he is able to study her without her notice. Her hair is dripping off of her shoulder and into her face; periodically she shoves it out of her way. When she does he glances her face: she is concentrating, the tiniest corner of a tooth poking out over her bottom lip, her brow furrowed and eyes widened as though to take in more with one glance. Her hands are stained with ink and the quill scurries furiously across the parchment. He glances at her neat, small handwriting: _Horcrux: piece of soul; must be made directly after murder; Gryffindor???_

He smiles to himself, the pleasant memory of their first day at Grimmauld Place seeping into his stomach. _He'd_ been the one to find the locket, after all, tucked in a drawer in what must have been Regulus' old room. Hermione had never seemed so proud of him, and she'd kissed his cheek for just a little too long.

Sometimes she is exasperating and sometimes she makes him want to rip his hair out, but mostly he figures that she's just right.

"You're amazing," he says, quietly.

Her quill twitches and her head shoots up; she stares at him with eyes so wide that they take up most of her face. "W-what?" She stutters. "What did you say?"

He can do nothing but look back at her, horrified, his whole brain frozen. "Er – nevermind," he blurts. "I mean – I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I meant…I don't know what I meant."

An odd look has come upon her and she is looking at him strangely. "Ron," she says slowly, "I never dated that _stupid_ McLaggen. I only did it because I thought that it would annoy you, because I was jealous that you were dating Lavender." She pauses for a moment and then adds, almost apologetically, "And I _did_ snog Viktor, but it wasn't very fun."

"I never fancied Lavender," he answers, his voice low as a smile stretches across his cheeks. "I just wanted to get back at you for snogging Krum."

And just like that, as though they say this sort of thing all the time, she smiles and he smiles and shifts so that she can sit next to him, and he sits against the couch and idly plays with her hair as she reads.

Some things, he suppose, really _were_ just that simple.

---

_Ginny -_

_I know that I haven't written before this, and I'm sorry. But I can't risk sending Hedwig and no other owls are available to me, except for Pig, and we both know how reliable he is. Anyway, I just wanted to apologise, and since it's not likely that we'll be able to discuss it over a cup of tea, I though I'd do it this way._

_I'm also really sorry that I never told you just how much you mean to me. I guess I'm not used to having to; it's pretty much just a given with Ron and Hermione and you know as well as I do that I'm pretty rotten at discussing my feelings with anyone, much less with girls that aren't – well, Hermione or your mum. But…you made my life really great for a while, Gin, better than it's ever been (but don't tell Ron, 'cause he'll get jealous). For the first time, I didn't have to worry about – about what I said or did around you, because you know me, almost as well as Ron and Hermione do, and certainly better than Cho did, and you never expected anything from me._

_Well…maybe you expected some things, but I'm pretty confident that I exceeded your expectations, no?_

_The point is that…the point is that…I know that you've cared about me for a long time, and I guess I'm just sorry that it took me so long to notice what a pretty, smart, funny, wonderful person that you are. (It's easier to say this on paper.)_

_I don't want you to get the wrong idea – I don't…I don't love you, Ginny, but that's not to say that I won't. I guess I just don't want to, because it seems like most of the people that I love end up getting hurt and I don't want that for you. I don't want you to be tied to me for the rest of your life, because there's always going to be danger, and I want you to marry some great bloke (who I'll hate) and have twelve children and live in a great big house that has mismatched furniture and a big yard._

_But the reality is that, with me, you'd probably never get that life._

_I broke up with you because I don't want Voldemort to use you against me; at least, that's what I told you. And it's partly true – I don't want him to touch you, ever again. The very though of it makes me sick. But…that's not the only reason. I really ended it because I don't love you and I don't want that to change, at least not until Voldemort's gone – if he's ever gone – and even then, I'm skeptical, because to tell you the truth I've never really loved anyone – well, romantically – and I'll probably be ruddy awful at it and you deserve someone like – like Dean (except NOT DEAN) who's had practice and can make you happy._

_I don't think I've ever made anyone happy, except maybe my Mum and Dad, and look what happened to them._

_Well, that's all I really wanted to say, I guess. 'Bye, Gin._

_Harry_

Harry stares down at the long parchment on the desk before him, and his hand aches from writing. He reads it over one more time before abruptly knocking it into the trash and muttering, _"Incendio."_

---

Bill said nothing.

It seems to Fleur that in one sentence, she can sum up their relationship over the past eleven months: Bill said nothing. He had said nothing when she'd asked him to quit the Order, he had said nothing when she'd accused him of condescending her, and he had said nothing of the tireless energy he'd spent building her a home. He had said nothing, and yet she had let her words speak for both of them – she had long ago convinced herself that his silence somehow deserved replies.

Even now, he does not speak, simply looks at her. She is soaking wet – she'd sat for hours in the rain, waiting for him. He does not ask why she didn't let herself in, and she does not tell him. They both know that this is not her house anymore.

"Bill," she pleads. "I am sorry. You 'ave to understand zhat."

"I do," he answers simply, and then turns away from her, pulling two mugs from the cabinet and conjuring some tea for the both of them. She takes the cup thankfully and tries to stop her shivering; but tingles slide up and down her spine and the warm steam does nothing for her.

She turns her head to stare out of the window and says softly, quietly, "Bill – Bill, I am – " She shakes her head, clipping the sentence short. Fleur knows that she is many things, not all of them pleasant, but never will she stoop so low as to _trap_ Bill to her side. If he does not love her anymore, than she does not want him there.

"Fleur," He says gently, "You don't have to be sorry. There is nothing for you to be sorry for. _I_ should be the one apologizing."

She turns her him, eyes wide. "What? But – everyzing 'as been my fault! I always saw zhe worst in you when I should 'ave been looking for zhe best. I needed someone to blame, Bill, for zhe terrible thoughts in my 'ead – "

"Stop!" He cries, pressing his palm to her mouth. "I know all that. I knew it at the time but I didn't know how to help you – you have to understand, I grew up in a house of six brothers, and Ginny didn't come along 'till later, so I only ever dealt with the happy Ginny, not the one with any sort of emotional depth. Therefore my policy has always sort of been 'it's not your problem, let them deal with it' … and I should have _stopped_ you when you were leaving, I should have tried to _tell_ you that I _understood_, and that I wanted to _help_ – but I was so _angry_, Fleur, and I let my pride cloud my vision – I'm sorry – "

"I love you," she tells him, honestly, her whole heart filling with him, with their child inside her, with the future that stretches out endlessly before her and him and them. "I love you – "

"I love you, too, Fleur. I do."

She throws her arms around his neck and stays there, letting him comfort her for the first time all year. "Bill – " she whispers, "Bill – I'm pregnant."

She feels him smiling into her shoulder. "Well, then, I guess you'll be needing a place for you and the little one to live, won't you?" She pulls her head back to look at his boyish grin, the scars across his face barely noticeable in the dim light. "As it so happens, I have an opening."

She kisses him, the way that she kissed him those dark months ago at the Burrow, as she feels the tiniest little flutter of movement in her belly.

---

"He'll kill you, you know." Draco keeps his tone neutral, alternately sipping his tea and reading the book on his lap. "He'll kill you and it won't be quick or easy or heroic."

Narcissa arches an eyebrow at him, dipping her quill into the inkblot and looping her letters across the page. "Yes," she agrees. "I have never fooled myself otherwise. Would you like a biscuit?"

He scowls but accepts the food, tucking it beneath his tongue to let the salt dissolve there. It is sticky and absolves all the liquid in his mouth until his gullet is dry and burning. "What do you want from me?" He asks finally, letting them both believe that his throat is harsh from the cracker and not the lump lodged there.

"I want you to uphold the family honor," she returns immediately. "Do as your father tells you."

"Then why don't _you_? If honor is so important, why are you sullying the family name by showing loyalty to that _Mudblood_ loving traitor?" He grips his teacup with unnecessary force and glares disloyally at her calm features.

She shrugs, snapping her fingers and gesturing for the house-elf to refill their near-empty cups. "I owe Sirius a favor," she says simply, "And I will not die in debt."

"You'll be _dead_, you won't care one way or the other! I don't want you to get – " he brakes off, and can't look at her tiny smile and gentle eyes. "To…bring shame to the name of Malfoy," he finishes weakly.

Narcissa touches his arm. "If it makes you feel better," she tells him quietly, "I don't want me to, either."

He rips his arm away.

---

Molly Weasley hands Arthur another cuppa as she lowers herself beside him at the dining room table. She fidgets with her own, spinning it in circles and absently dipping her finger into the steam to check the heat. Her husband smiles, covering her hand with his own and dropping a feather-light kiss into her hair. She drops her cheek onto his shoulder and both of them watch the clock; _Mortal Peril, Mortal Peril, Mortal Peril_.

They sit like that for a long time.

---

"Hagrid? May I come in?" McGonagall tries to ignore the blatant sniffles creeping under the door; she doesn't want Hagrid to know that she has heard him. "I have something for you."

The huge handle turns and Hagrid ushers her inside, carefully avoiding her face. "Sure, sure … thanks fer walkin' all'a way down here…sit, sit…let me get yeh some tea…"

She smiles sadly at him and feels herself disappear in the huge chair he places her on. "Well – I'm not sure how you'll feel about this, Hagrid, but as I'm sure you've guessed, it was Dumbledore's wish that you should stay here after he passed on. However, since the school did not reopen, we are now under considerable pressure to sell the property."

A particularly loud sniff escapes the half-giant and he mumbles, "Ah figured as much. The Ministry'd wan' teh make it look like they was workin' teh fix this mess…"

"Well, they won't take Hogwarts from me without a _damned_ good fight," she tells him in a clipped tone, and is gratified to find the hint of a smile on his lips. "The point is, Hagrid, it was Dumbledore's wish, as it is mine, that you should own this building. With the present difficulties arriving with our dear Ministry of Magic, the staff and I have considered all our options and think it best…to sell."

Hagrid's eyes widen. "_Sell_? But didn't yeh jus' say -- ?"

"Not to the _Ministry_, Hagrid, to _you._" He gasps, and stumbles backwards. The whole house shakes with his movement and McGonagall clutches the armrests of her chair. Hagrid stares wordlessly at her for several moments, gaping. "Of course, I understand if you don't want all of the added responsibility – "

"No!" He yelps. "No! It's no' tha'! It's … I jus' can' afford it, McGonagall. I don' save my money because I don' have cause to, no' with this place up an' runnin', and recently I've been taken care of by the Order, so – "

McGonagall rolls her eyes. "I will let you in on a secret, my friend," she tells him, sitting up a little straighter. "As Hogwarts is priceless, we've decided to settle on something that will preserve not only its dignity but also our sense of humor about the whole affair." She smiles kindly at him. "How do you feel about a sickle for the whole thing?"

He can do nothing but gape at her for several minutes before shouting, "A SICKLE? ARE YEH BLOODY MAD?"

She winces. "Hagrid, _please_," she scolds lightly. "I understand that it is a huge favor to ask, so I'm more than willing to grant you a few months to consider – "

"NO!" He colors as she sends him another pointed look. "Ah mean, no. Ah'll do it fer yeh – fer Dumbledore – I've even got ah sickle righ' here…but are yeh sure abou' this? I'm not the bes' homeowner…" he gives a helpless gesture towards the state of his own cottage and McGonagall smiles warmly.

"Hagrid, I have every faith in your abilities." He grins at her so widely that she thinks his face might burst, and a small, warm little bubble swells in her chest. Affections surges through her for the overgrown man that never really grew up and she pats his shoulder, tucking the sickle into her pocket. "Dumbledore was very proud of you, you know," she tells him softly at the door. "We're all very proud of you."

Hagrid doesn't speak, just looks at her for a moment and then nods once. "Thank yeh," he mutters. "Ah'll take good care ah this place – it's mah home."

Her eyes sweep over the courtyard; the lake and the Forbidden Forest. "Mine too."

---

His cheeks are damp and his glasses misty. Luna is grateful for his memory's return, but hates his tears. She takes a seat beside him and wrapsher arm around his shoulders, gently leaning against his warm sweater. "I miss her too," she whispered softly. "Sometimes it's unbearable."

Her father smiles shakily down at her. "She loved you so much, little one," he promises. "You meant everything to her."

She lets him take her into his arms and finds a strange sort of comfort in his tears mingling with her own, the warm little drops dripping off of the end of her nose and into his abandoned tea cup. It feels almost like a memory – a memory in which her mother will never be forgotten.

---

Neville sits stood quietly, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "I'm not – I'm not sure if you can hear me," he begins, glancing behind his shoulder to make sure that his gran isn't listening, "but I just wanted to tell you that I…you know…I'm grateful for what you did for me. It cost you everything and…and it cost _me_ everything…I mean, don't get me wrong, Dad, Gran's great and all, but she's…well, she's sort of a handful, if you know what I mean…"

He lowers his voice another notch, just to be safe. "I just didn't want you to think that I don't know how much it means – _what_ it means – that you gave up everything for me, because I _do_ get it, and if I could change it then I _would_, you _have_ to understand that – " he broke off fiercely, trying to calm himself, when Luna's voice came into his head. _It's okay to be angry sometimes._

"I – I _miss you!"_ He cries finally. "And I'm – I'm _angry_ that this happened to us because I'm certain that you didn't deserve it and I don't deserve it and unless V-V-Voldemort was an old school buddy of Gran's, then _she_ probably didn't do anything to deserve it, either! And I'm _sick_ of always being that 'poor Longbottom bloke', because you didn't give up your _minds_ so that I could be this bumbling – this bumbling _idiot_ that no one really takes seriously and I just wish that everything, _everything_, was different, I wish that _I_ was different, and I wish – I _wish_ – that you knew, or even cared about what sort of a dunderhead moron you have as a son!"

He brakes off, breathing heavily, anger spent. "I…I love you," he whispers, and then stiffens as he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"And I'm certain they feel the same, dear boy." He looks up, horrified, at the sound of Gran's voice. She isn't looking at him, but rather her son, asleep on the bed. "And I'm sure…I'm sure if they could…if they knew how…your parents would – they would tell you that they love you, and that they _are_ proud of you, even if sometimes it's hard to show it."

Neville stares, unsure if they are still talking about his parents. "Gran…?" He questions, and she pulls her hand away.

"Are you ready?" She asks, without looking at him. "We can stay a few more minutes if you like."

He feels himself starting to smile, and a warm sort of feeling spreads through him, as though he's just downed an entire pot of fresh tea. "No, Gran, that's all right," he says softly. "We can leave." He pauses for a minute, then reaches across and gently pecks her cheek. "Thanks," he mutters, and hurries ahead.

---

The tiny golden ribbon slips through the window and onto the ebony floor. Remus watches as its companions follow close behind, sliding through the shades and coloring his flat with light. Tonks snores loudly beside him, her hair its regular mousy brown as she sleeps. He hasn't told her, but he thinks that she is her most beautiful when she just lets herself be natural. There is something in her face that grabs his heart and squeezes gently each time she looks his way.

It's the smile, he thinks. The coy, cunning, adorable, and mischievous smile that reminds him so much of better days – days before he was only Marauder left and there was still just a little sunshine in the world.

Sometimes it is hard for him to really wrap his mind around the fact that he is the last Marauder. It leaves him with a dull, achy feeling in his chest, and he wants desperately to just – _find_ Peter and ask him, "_Why_?" even if he knows that he'll never get a real answer.

Once, he takes out the little photo album that he has stashed away under his bed, for those occasions when he needs something, _any_thing to bring back the memories that fade with each passing day. And it's _refreshing_, in its own way, to look down and see James and Sirius and Peter and sometimes Lily smiling and waving, or hitting one another, or flashing inappropriate hand signals.

The past is important, he reasons, pressing his lips to Tonks' forehead, if you want to fight for any sort of future.


	7. The Baby Bauble

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For me_

_Who just got her driver's license!_

**Chapter Nineteen: The Baby Bauble**

Fleur stares at the Baby Bauble (the box had read, "Now equipped with a friendly personality to guide you through the testing!" which made Fleur wonder if the Baby Bauble had been unfriendly before) that floats before her, glowing pink and chanting happily, "You're pregnant! You're pregnant! You're pregnant!" She cannot move, or speak, or even breathe; her whole head is filled suddenly with the image of a little redheaded baby, with her sharp chin and Bill's warm brown eyes. She can almost feel the weight on her breast, can almost smell the baby powder, can almost hear Bill yelp as he trips on a toy –

She shakes the vision out of her head, snatching the Bauble out of the air and silencing it; she does not want Aunt Louise to hear, not yet. Fleur feels a surge of possessiveness for the child in her belly – she wants it to be _hers_, alone, without Mrs. Weasley hovering over her shoulder or her brothers-in-law cracking fat jokes, or any of it. She just wants to know the little baby inside and let it know her.

Her hand rests on her flat stomach. It will grow, Fleur knows; it will grow, and so will she, and she wonders why she is not more afraid.

---

_To Mrs. Fleur Weasley,_

_We are pleased to inform you that the whereabouts of missing person # 13067, Gabrielle Delacour, have been discovered. Although we cannot inform you of the exact location at this time, rest assured that the Ministry is doing everything that it can to retrieve missing person # 13067, Gabrielle Delacour. Please remain alert; we will keep you updated._

_Yours truly,_

_The Ministry of Magic_

_(French Branch)_

_---_

"Fleur, I'm sorry, but there's simply no way that we can – "

"You _can_! You _can_! I 'ave seen you do it hundreds of times!" Fleur knows that she sounds hysterical, and she is – she has never been so frantic in her life. She wants to scream and rip her hair out and run all the way home – home to _France_, to her parents home and her beautiful, French-speaking friends, where being a Veela isn't all that special and she can just owl her Mum whenever things don't go her way.

McGonagall sighs heavily, rubbing at her eyes. "Please calm down, Fleur," she scolds. "I understand that you are worried – "

"Worried!" Fleur snorts derisively. "I wish zhat were all!"

"But there is simply no way that we can insert you into the rescue. You know as well as I do that the only times we have infiltrated our own Ministry is during absolute emergencies, and even then we do not always succeed and you face awful consequences…"

Fleur shakes her head. "I do not care," she says flatly. "I do not care about any of it! My little sister _needs me_."

No one answers her; she glares furiously at them all – at Molly Weasley and that _awful_ Andromeda Tonks and even Mad-Eye Moony. The amount of fury and _anger_ that courses through her takes Fleur by surprise; but she casts it out of her mind and sits straight in her chair.

"You should let her go." All heads turn towards the voice; it is Bill, standing in the doorway, his eyes anywhere but her face. "I mean, Merlin, it's her little sister. Mum, what if it was Ginny? Wouldn't you want one of us there?"

Mrs. Weasley looks away guiltily. "Well – Bill does have a point, Minerva…maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea…"

McGonagall frowns deeply, looking straight at Fleur. "The chances of your survival are minimum at best, Fleur, if you are discovered. The Ministry has not been kind towards insurgents in the past."

"I know zhis," she answers immediately.

The former Headmistress of Hogwarts studies the half-Veela's face; Fleur is tempted to blush but forces her cheeks to remain pale. "Bill," she says finally, "I'm not sure I understand why you are so supportive. As newlyweds, shouldn't you two be focused on starting a family? Not dashing off on heroic missions?"

Fleur feels her heart constrict; Bill will tell them, because Bill never lies. He shrugs. "I don't think this is the best time to bring a child into the world, do you, Minerva?" He asks mildly, and Fleur's vision of the redheaded baby flashes into her mind once more. Her hand goes automatically to her belly, and she thinks, for the first time, _What am I going to do?_

---

France is not as kind as it once was; the glorious city of Paris dims in comparison to the picture in her mind. Fleur finds herself homesick even as she stands in her parents' home and kisses their cheeks. "I've just come for a quick visit," she lies in French, "To check up on things."

Their search party is small, five or so wizards and witches, none friendly. She is given the situation in a short speech from the leader of the bunch, a witch named Therésa. "We'll meet at midnight tomorrow," she says quickly, "The prison is beneath the Descartes Manor; we believe there to be anywhere from twelve to twenty young girls captive there. According to the Ministry, we'll encounter thirty Death Eaters or so; we've set stunners around the building using our inside men to stun them all once I say the trigger, so resistance shouldn't be a problem."

Fleur twitches, and wants to ask, "I'm sorry – do you know any of their names?"

---

Therésa is right; Death Eaters mull around the front yard, and except for their bizarre garb Fleur thinks that they look almost like real people.

At one-thirty, Therésa says the trigger, and a beam of orange light extends from the center of the Manor and across the whole property; Fleur and her companions throw up a large shield and watch as all around them Death Eaters tumble mindlessly to the ground. Fleur shivers, watching them; it's almost as though she can feel the numbness that's overcome the world. Therésa steps over the unconscious body of a young recruit – no older than fifteen, perhaps. "Are you coming?" She asks in French. "We don't have all night! Phillipe – you take care of the Death Eaters; you know where to send them, yes? The rest of you, with me."

Fleur follows silently, and does not envy Phillipe, who gazes out at the stunned enemies and wears an expression of mixed fear and pity.

---

Fleur feels sick. The staircase she descends seems to go on forever. The walls get smaller and the steps steeper as she goes farther and farther down – but the soft murmur of voices increases and she feels her heart speed.

Therésa holds up a hand, gesturing for everyone to remain still. "_Bonjour_?" She calls. A chorus of feminine French voices answer her, all of them asking, "Are you here to rescue us?"

Fleur cannot restrain herself any longer; she pushes to the front and hurries down the tunnel until it opens into a large cavern; coves have been carved into the sides, and young girls are practically piled into them. Their faces are dirty, their clothing tattered, their stomachs emaciated and eyeballs sunken. They begin to cry when they see her, calling, "You have come! You have come!"

"Gabrielle?" She cries. "Gabrielle Delacour?"

She is led by those who have already been released – and there she is, her little Gabrielle, weakly clutching the prison bars with one hand and reaching out with the other. She grasps Fleur's hand and cries softly, "You have come!"

"Gabrielle, my darling Gabrielle," Fleur whispers in French, blowing apart the locks and gathering her sister into her arms. She is so small, so thin, her eyelids barely strong enough to remain open. "What has happened to you?"

As soon as she asks, Fleur wishes that she hadn't. She finds that she doesn't want to know what Gabrielle has been through; she does not want to hear her sister's answer. "I love you," she says, to stall the words forming on Gabrielle's lips, and by the way her sister does not reply, Fleur knows that she understands.

---

"Goodbye, Gabrielle."

"_Au revoir_, Fleur. Thank you."

Fleur stands silent for a moment, gazing at Gabrielle's face. Her little sister is not crying, as she used to whenever Fleur went to England – she seems impartial to the whole affair. Fleur feels a stab of pain in her chest – she has failed as a sister, even though she came all this way to save Gabrielle's life, even though she has helped her to recover her health.

She has failed, because she has blinded herself to the truth – little Gabrielle is not little Gabrielle anymore, and she has seen terrible things that Fleur cannot even imagine. But Fleur does not want to acknowledge that, and so she pushes it out of her mind and pretends that everything will be okay, if only Gabrielle can _look_ all right again.

"I'll miss you. Write to me."

"Give my love to Bill. Tell him you're pregnant."

Fleur kisses Gabi's forehead. "I'm sorry," she whispers, but Gabrielle looks away. "Travel safely home, Fleur."

She looks down, startled. "I am home," she counters, surprised.

But Gabrielle laughs harshly. "Home is where the heart is, Fleur, and you do not belong in France anymore." She looks away, and does not want to hear these terrible and true things from her little sister. Gabrielle seems to feel sorry, because she gives her hand a squeeze. "I will write," she promises.

---

Bill is waiting for her when she enters the house; he sits at the table, idly playing with the centerpiece. "Is she all right?" He asks immediately, standing. "Is she safe?"

"Yes," Fleur answers, touched by his concern. "She is safe."

He seems relieved. "Then what's wrong? Why are you sad?" Fleur shakes her head, dropping her suitcase into a corner. Bill smiles sadly at her. "She's different now, but she'll recover," he promises, "and you'll love this new Gabrielle as much as you loved the old one, if not a little more." He laughs a little. "Trust me, I know from experience."

He makes for the exit. "Bill," she calls, "Where is home?"

He turns, surprised. "Where your family is," he answers.

"Where is my family?" She asks.

He shrugs. "Still in France, I should think," he says, but this is not the answer she is looking for and they both know it. The door shuts quietly behind him as he exits, and she finds herself wishing it had slammed.


	8. The Freak Show

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Ava_

_Who's sitting right next to me_

**Chapter Eighteen: The Freak Show**

Once, when he was young, Peter made the mistake of climbing too high in the massive tree that stood in his backyard. But the power he felt as he rose flattened his logic, his awareness of danger; it overcame all thought of fear and consequences. With every branch that he put behind him, Peter's bravery grew. The leaves that kissed his cheek seemed to urge him upward.

And then he reached the top, and then he saw the sky, saw the sky that he could never climb into, and then the branches snapped and he found himself dangling above death.

Peter looked at his feet. Felt the heavy sky weigh down on him.

He let go, and the white-hot pain that spread through every centimeter of skin and every ounce of bone felt pure, somehow. He choked on blood.

---

Pain comes in so many different forms. As a boy, his father's angry fists sought the screams; but he has found a whole new agony to adore. It is not physical torture he finds himself submersed in now, but rather the slow poisoning of his soul. He can feel its decay but makes no move to slow the process. He likes the way her voice sounds, spitting toxic in his ear.

"Why do you protect them?" She whispers, running her hand through his hair. "They don't really care about you. Don't you know that?"

He smiles at her naïveté. "To be fair, Bella," he murmurs, his lips almost touching hers (laughing at her disgust), "_you're_ only sleeping with me to get a chance at James or your cousin."

She shoves him away. "Useless," she snarls.

---

He will give himself to the cause. It is not that he particularly hates Mudbloods, or feels it necessary to murder them, but the sweet and sour pinch of Voldemort's hate on his tongue is exciting. The cold, cold fear keeps him sane; for it is that which he understands.

He is not bred for the joy of peace.

Peter learns later that soon, James and Lily will not have that pleasure, either. For whatever reason, this makes him sad.

---

Cut your losses, he decides. The toxic of the cause bores him now, but the terror of their pursuit will ease his nerves.

---

The Weasleys are entertaining, for a time. But they are too wonderful for his tastes.

And then he sees Harry (sees James, sees Hogwarts and laughter and homework before a warm fire). He knows Harry to be his punishment, a dead James' revenge and the unimaginable sorrow reinvigorates him. So he remains, hating himself and hating the world but loving Harry, loving the memory.

---

The summer that Harry will turn eighteen, Peter finds himself at Number Four, not sure why he's there, not sure why it's taken him so long. The walk is neat and sharp and he feels important just walking on it. The roses remind his of his mother, of her stiff cadaver that flattened the garden.

And then he opens the door and pulls his wand and then the fat man is dead while his wife and child are screaming. He shuts his eyes, takes in the sound. It echoes in his ears.

Harry's eyes are dark and blaze with blackened fire as his fist collides with Peter's jaw; the pain is excruciating and he wants to say _thank you_ but his tongue is too big for his mouth. Harry slams his foot into Peter's stomach – and then a redheaded girl has emerged from the fireplace and is screaming at him, "Stop! Stop! This isn't _you_, Harry, what are you _doing_?"

"Giving him what he deserves," Harry snarls, digging his heel into the palm of Peter's hand until there is a satisfying _crack._

The girl shakes her head, grabbing his arm out of the air before Harry can deliver any more intoxicating pain. "Maybe he does deserve it," she whispers, her voice breathy and cracking. "But you don't have the hate to give it to him." She pauses, tears suddenly spilling out of her eyes. "I have to believe that."

Peter watches the episode with mild interest. A frightfully Mudblooded witch (_a true wizard can always tell_) holds Harry's aunt in her arms, whispering into her ear even as she gazes on James' son with terrified eyes. And Ron (is that affection in his gut?) stands silently, arms crossed over his chest. Peter wants to say – "You remind me so much of myself," or perhaps, "If you let them, they will leave you; they always leave you."

But, the pain.

"He has taken everything from me, Ginny," Harry hisses, and the name is branded in Peter's mind (_"Draco,"_ he will say before the battle, _"I have one extra little job for you."_) "You have no idea what that's like."

She steps away from him. "Everything? Then what are _we_?" She asks darkly. "Do you suppose that you are the only person to have lost loved ones in this war?"

"It's different!" Harry yells, green eyes almost black.

She puts her hands on her hips and then Peter realizes – like Lily, so like Lily. "Tell that to the graves of my mother's family," she snaps back at him. "And don't yell at me."

He looks helpless for a second. _No, no. Find the anger. The anger will protect you. They will leave you in the end; they always leave you in the end. That's why you have to leave them first._

"Harry," the bushy-haired girl says, "Ginny's right. Mrs. Weasley lost both of her parents and her two brothers … and she came through, didn't she?"

Ron clenches his fists. "I could kill him with my bare hands, Harry," he says quietly. All three heads turn to him in surprise. He is unapologetic. "But that is why I won't." He finally tears his gaze from Peter's bleeding face. "I take a lot of pleasure in seeing him like this. But we can't let that hatred get the best of us, because then we'll be like him, and if we're like him than everyone that he took will have died for nothing."

There is silence. _No! They will leave you!_

"That's the wisest thing you've ever said, Ron," murmurs the girl with bushy hair. "At least, the wisest thing you've ever said when I wasn't feeding you any answers."

Ron smiles. "Don't get used to it," he declares, and then Harry steps away, and then Ginny clutches his hand and Peter can see the clouds from the window. He summons his wand; grabs Lily (_no, no, Ginny, Ginny_); goes outside: he can feel the weight of the sky stretched endlessly above him. The dead man inside, his corpse will begin to stiffen. He hopes the soul can escape; wonders how high that spirit will soar.

Harry and Ron and Hermione are frightened, and he feeds on the energy of their terror. "I won't kill her, Harry," he promises (_One last favor, James_) and hurls her into his waiting arms.

He Apparates back to Riddle Manor and sleeps in an empty corner.

He shoves his hands into pockets, bitter. Tired. The end is coming soon, he knows. He hopes it is Remus. Hopes that he will get to press his silver hand against the werewolf's skin.

For old times' sake.


	9. The View from the Top

**Author's Note:** Uhm. This is . . . different? I don't know how I feel about it, so be totally honest in your reviews!

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For my muse_

_Who's been MIA._

**Chapter Seventeen: The View from the Top**

I.

She hits the floor, and dust blossoms into the air and into her eyes. Penny chokes, dry heaving as dirt and lint cloud her mouth and stick in her throat. Waves of pain roll up her arm; her wand hand dangles limply from what she thinks may have a broken wrist. She runs her hand along the floor, gritting her teeth as she snaps a dislocated shoulder back into its position. She feels her fingers close around the end of her wand and allows a small, grim smile before climbing to her knees and surveying her surroundings.

Hannah thinks that this may be as close to seeing Muggle fireworks as she'll ever get. Ribbons of every color of light stream through the air to explode upon hitting furniture, or coil inside of their prey to detonate there. Penny's eyes slide along the walls; the Death Eaters are outnumbered but desperate, a dangerous combination.

The pain in her wrist is nearly unbearable, but she can't risk healing it until she is alone. Her objective is simple: get the manuscript. Don't be noticed. McGonagall had stressed the second part – Penny wonders when her old professor would stop seeing her as a student and start recognizing a fellow member of the Order.

She shakes her head, wrapping herself in Dumbledore's old invisibility cloak (McGonagall had given to her with the words "use it well") and climbing to her feet. She holds her breath; the dust that has gathered in Zabini Hall threatens to choke her every time she inhales. Everything is covered in a thick sheet of gray – even the skeleton of a man that's disintegrating on the stairwell as she climbs.

"Hello? Hello?"

Penny freezes. Hand on her wand. Constant vigilance.

". . . _Penny_?"

She looks up.

II.

Thick dust settles in Hannah's throat; her legs and feet tingle from lack of blood but she can't move. She can do nothing but remain helplessly still, dangling in the eight-by-four cage without her wand or any hope of freedom. Fourteen or fifteen other prisoners share her plight: to the left is Luna and to the right Susan Bones; Ginny Weasley's and Neville Long bottom's cages have been empty for the past twenty minutes.

Luna sits immobile as well, legs crossed Indian style as she hums quietly to herself. Her eyes are closed, and Hannah can't help but wonder where she is at the moment—perhaps some quiet place where children in cages is only a terrible nightmare.

Penny gazes at her in wordless shock, and Hannah jokes, weakly, "How's the view from down there?"

She learned at a young age that when faced with the choice, one must always laugh, if only to keep from shouting.

"What—Hannah—_why_—?"

She would shrug, but it hurts too much to move. "The same old reasons. We've got blood traitors, Half-breeds, and Muggleborns . . . the usual."

Penny frowns. "McGonagall never mentioned—"

Hannah smiles, a little condescendingly. "She doesn't know where we are. The general thought, I'm told, is that they've taken us to France. Apparently there's another branch of this . . . operation, down there."

A sudden crash startles both girls; Penny dives into the shadows and Hannah tightens her grip on her cage.

III.

Ginny's knees hit the floor as she tumbles from her cage. She bites her lip until blood comes, trying to keep the tears out of her eyes. Her heart pounds against her ribs, and she hates herself for feeling so afraid. The Death Eater behind her out, nails clinging to Ginny's cheek. Angry pink scars bloom in their wake, tiny red droplets collapsing onto the floor beneath her feet. She hisses, silent tears converging in the corners of her eyes before spilling out of the side. "Did you_ really _think you were a match for a band of _pure_ witches?"

The woman is dressed in a tight red dress, her black heels adorned with diamonds. "I had this crazy idea," Ginny grits out, the words pushed forcefully through her teeth, "that _talent,_ rather than blood type, made the witch." She is oddly proud of her sarcasm; Fred and George, she thinks, would have been proud.

The Death Eater laughs, turning away and tugging at a leash that she conjures around Ginny's neck. She stumbles forward and doesn't have the strength to resist. She looks up at Luna, whose eyes are wide open now. _Be safe,_ she mouths.

_Besafebesafebesafe._

IV.

Penny presses against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest and she's certain that the woman in the red dress will turn around and—

"Well, isn't that sweet. And I suppose, in this dream world that you live in, you don't mind Mudbloods running amok, contaminating everyone and everything."

Luna Lovegood hums dreamily. "Did you know," she declares loudly, "Mud has many of the cleansing properties you find in your anti-zit potions? It also does wonders for the skin—makes it very soft."

The Death Eater does not answer for moment and then laughs quietly. "Yes . . . and so all Mudbloods should be terminated and made into something useful." Luna ignores the comment, eyes closed once more as she hums. Penny frowns, trying to determine the song but any recognition fades to the back recesses of her mind.

The door opens once more, and Neville Longbottom collapses onto the rotting wood floor. Penny stifles a gasp; mild-mannered Neville Longbottom, lip puffy and ear bleeding, struggles to his feet and manages the tiniest of grins.

"Give 'em hell, Gin," he mutters, voice hoarse and aged and cracking. Penny starts forward, grasping her wand—

_Get the manuscript. Do not be noticed. Do not be distracted._

She shuts her eyes. Turns away. Fights the bile in her throat.

V.

Hannah's heart pounds, her fingers working frantically at the knots that bind her wrists. _Twist, loop, pull . . . twist, loop, pull . . ._

Days of this, and slowly she has made progress.

"I'll take it from here."

She looks up, and tries not to be surprised as the face of Draco Malfoy appears in the doorway, his mask raised to reveal his face. She studies him – he's paler than usual, and his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. She wonders if it's true, what Ginny told her—that he didn't want to kill Dumbledore or join the Death Eaters in the first place. She wonders if his doubt will be enough to save his life, in the end, or if it will be too much to deliver him.

The woman in the red dress frowns crossly. "Under whose orders?"

"I take orders from one Lord only."

The doubt drips away; the Death Eater smiles instead, summoning a black purse. "Very well. Have fun, Draco . . . and behave."

Hannah watches her go, and wonders why she is suddenly so afraid.

VI.

It occurs to Ginny that she may be forced to kill Draco, and she knows with frightening surety that if the situation arises, she will. She will kill him unflinchingly, because he is the enemy in a way that he's never been before.

A small smile quirks up at the corners of his mouth. "Well, isn't this ironic? The littlest Weasel at the disposal of the youngest Dragon."

She spits on his shoe. It gets the point across.

"Don't test me, Weasel," Malfoy snarls, leaning in so close that she can smell his breath. She thinks, vaguely, that he's much more handsome when he smiles. "I'll do what I have to do."

"As long as you don't cry about it in the bathroom afterwards," she taunts, her voice echoing throughout the room.

His hand is stiff against her cheek, and she cannot withhold a cry of pain. Neville straightens beside her and she wants to tell him, _Thank you for being my friend,_ but suddenly her mouth is filled with her own blood. Malfoy laughs, his wand still leveled at her tongue. "It's called _Sleccium_," he informs her. "Be sure you don't choke."

VII.

Penny's brain races, and she has to force her feet to follow. With Malfoy so distracted, she can easily slip into the room behind him and retrieve her prize. But her body is sluggish, wanting instead to stay, to heal Ginny, to do _something_ for this people who have been her friends.

_Do as you were told_, her brain tells her forcefully. _Don't disobey McGonagall._

That's what her brain knows to be wise; and yet her heart screams differently, asking how she can even begin to _imagine_ leaving them to _die_—

She clenches her fists, pressing against the wall as she slips around Malfoy. Penny steps into the light once she's sure she is out of eyesight—and for the first time realizes how _many_ cages dangle from the roof.

She catches Hannah's eye. There is terrible sadness, and terrible comprehension. She turns her face away, following the rules. She always has.

Percy, she thinks as she steps into the dimly lighted room, would be proud.

VIII.

Hannah does not know where Penny is going, only that she is the last ember of a dying hope. The knot is almost loosed now; she is so close that her fingers begin to shake and her heart increase. Ginny Weasley coughs up blood, splattering her own clothing in the dewy liquid. Neville slouches at her side; in his eyes Hannah can see her own fear and confusion and blind rage.

"Malfoy," Luna says suddenly. "I was in the girl's bathroom the other day and spoke with Myrtle. She has quite a crush on you, did you know? I wasn't aware that boys like to spend their time in the _girl's_ loo, but I suppose that everyone has their own tastes. Still, Myrtle simply wouldn't be quiet. She says that you're kind, and considerate; she tells me that you don't want to be a Death Eater but you're too scared to walk away. Myrtle says—"

"Shut _UP_!" Malfoy's takes long strides towards the Ravenclaw's cage, his fists balled at his sides. "Lovegood, if you know what's good for you, you'll—"

Blood flows into her fingers for the first time in days. She allows herself to enjoy the sensation, but only for a minute. "Malfoy," she says then, kicking open the door of her cage and dropping to the floor. She feels strong, but she shouldn't. She feels brave, and she shouldn't. He turns to look at her, and she feels pleasure at his fear.

And though she will still fight him, will still beat him, Hannah thinks for a flicker of a second that perhaps they understand each other, after all.

IX.

Ginny watches Hannah rise to her feet and stride with confidence. There is no wand in her hand, no weapon by which to defeat this man who looks more like a boy.

"How did you—?"

Hannah's fist collides with his jaw. She summons his wand. Ginny is almost afraid of what she sees in the older girl's eyes.

XII.

Penny's fingers close around the scroll. A list of all the Death Eaters in the British branch. _A victory for the Order,_ McGonagall had said. And she'd been so proud to be chosen for this.

Penny can hear the sound of fists colliding with faces—she wonders if Malfoy's power trip has taken a deadly turn.

But she doesn't go back to see. She doesn't try to help. She just closes her eyes and Apparates away.

XIII.

Malfoy lies there for a moment, stunned. Hannah towers above him, fierce vindication flooding through her whole body. "How do _you_ like it?" She snarls, before hefting him to his feet and throwing him at a cage. "Get in."

He looks back at her. Helpless. Angry. "No."

She wants to knock the arrogance out of him, wants to make him bleed as she has watched her friends bleed, to make him hurt as she has hurt. "Get _in_, you no-good piece of—"

"_Hannah._" It is Luna, standing just outside her cage. She dangles her wrist bonds in an almost cheerful manner, but her eyes slide towards Neville Longbottom and they are dark and frightened.

Malfoy slumps. "Well, Abbott, I'll bet you enjoy this," he says quietly. "I suppose you deserve it."

But she does not want this defeat, either. She hates the backwards pity in her stomach. "Next time, I'm not going to stop," she promises, and sets the captives free.

XIV.

Ginny's chest hurts each times she spits out blood. It's almost a puddle now, her own hands stained and dirty. She thinks of dead chickens and damp Chambers and wonders which is worse.

Luna has flown to Neville's side; Ginny wants to be happy for them, but instead thinks of Harry and feels her heart constrict. She doesn't want this anymore—she doesn't want to be Bill, brave and cool and calm. She doesn't want to be Charlie, rushing into danger out of a misplaced sense of adventure. She doesn't want to be Percy, who lost it all because of his stupid pride. She doesn't want to be Fred, or George, and miss out on all of the beauty in life. And she doesn't want to be Ron—loyal, steadfast, hilarious Ron—because she's _sick_ and _tired_ of this war and even though she'll keep fighting she _can't_ always play the hero.

Ginny wants, finally, to be _Ginny_, and Ginny is ready to go home.

XV.

Draco watches them Apparate away, one by one by one. He knows what will come, for him—he will accept the punishment.

A Malfoy is never afraid.


	10. The Dispossessed

**Author's Notes: **Hmmmm.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Mr. Hodges_

_I'm sorry that I wrote this during your class._

**Chapter Sixteen: The Dispossessed**

"Well, I must admit . . . you certainly disproved my double-agent theory."

Severus Snape arches an eyebrow beneath his mask, calmly folding his hands together beneath his heavy cloak. There is a tic in his finger, and weaknesses cannot be exposed. "My relief knows no bounds," he tells the dark-haired woman, his tone bored and not a little mocking. "I live only to please you, Bellatrix."

She ignores the snub, instead placing a hand on his shoulder as she faintly touches her lips to his ear. "But watch your little pet," she purrs, and her eyes flick over his shoulder at what Snape knows is the hunched form of Draco Malfoy. "My nephew he may be . . . worth protecting, he is not."

Bellatrix smiles, chillingly, and Severus is briefly reminded of her cousin in a dark hallway beneath an angry willow tree, the quiet snarl of a wolf filling the space between them. "Yes," he answers, his voice sharp and cold and cutting. "You have made clear in what esteem you hold the bonds of family."

She stiffens at his careless reminder of Sirius' death, and he eyes her subtly. "Remember what I said," she snaps then, leaning away from him and tugging down her mask. "If he is a problem, I will not hesitate to solve it."

Severus watches her stalk away through the orange haze that rises from his cauldron. From this angle, he thinks, she's even a little human-looking.

Narcissa emerges from the shadows, eyes wide and glazed and wet. "What did she tell you?" She asks, fingers balling tightly. "You can't let her hurt him, Severus—"

"Silence," he snaps, eyes snapping to the pile of robes and limbs. But Draco remains asleep, his breath curling upwards. Severus studies the gooseflesh on his arms in interest—he hadn't realized it was cold. "Don't wake him, Narcissa," he finishes in a softer tone. "It would not do for him to know that you are so concerned."

She bites her lip. There is something like weakness in the Malfoy queen, when it comes to her son. And though he loves her (but only just enough to keep him human), he tucks this piece of information into the back of his mind. He hates himself because he knows that should the need arise for sacrifice, he will reach into his file cabinet of memories and offer this knowledge as the lamb.

One must always work to one's own advantage. Life has taught him nothing, if not this.

"He loves you as if you were family, Severus," she says then, reaching for his hand. He watches her pale fingers intertwine with his own and refuses to meet her eyes. "We both know that Lucius is no father. Draco has _always_ looked up to you . . . "

He frees himself, focusing once more on the cauldron. "I will help as I can, if it will shut you up," he says harshly, and stiffens as she places her hands on his shoulders, spinning him so that their eyes are met.

"You are most esteemed in the Dark Lord's eyes," she breathes, and he knows that he's powerless to refuse. They've been down this road before. "You have brought yourself glory through the murder of Dumbledore," and here he winces, because _murder_ is too perfect a word for the deed, "and if you asked, the Dark Lord would listen to you. _Only_ you. He loves you more even than Lucius, even than Bella, even than Rodolphus—"

He grasps her wrist in his fingers. She is so small. "Narcissa," he interrupts, gently now, "I will protect Draco as best I can. But we both know that the Dark Lord honors no one too much for too long. I have bought myself a year of favor, perhaps. This I do not deny. And yet easily can one misstep."

Her eyes are wet—with relief or sorrow he cannot tell. "I did not want this for him," she breathes. "I wanted . . . I thought that this war was in the _past_. As a child, I was so proud to be a part of our cause—I felt so _sure_ of everything. But now . . . now my _son_, and not I, bears the burden of punishment." She spins away from him, pacing towards the dirtied window. "He is so _young_, Severus, and oughtn't he be at home, flying on his broomstick, or . . . or with his friends, or a girlfriend . . . oughtn't he be free . . . ?"

She does not bother to wipe her tears; they are her greatest weapon. Severus knows this better than most.

She steps toward him, suddenly closer than he has allowed her to come in the past. Too near and he will not be able to restrain his desires—and she will give herself, he knows, if it means that he promises her the safety of her son (a promise he cannot—will not—keep). Her scent is strong, gentle, calming and he reaches for her—

Draco stirs. She pulls away, and the dank stench of his dungeon replaces the flowery lullaby of her perfume. She backs into the darkness, her eyes the only part of her illuminated as she sweeps towards the door. "Severus," she whispers softly, and he keeps his eyes firmly on his cauldron. "We both know my time is ending. Care for him, do everything you can to save his life, and I will repay you the debt, as best I can. What_ever_ the price may be."

And then she is gone and her son rises in her place. Severus watches him brush the sleep out of his eyes and thinks that, for a second, he looks almost like a seventeen-year-old boy and not the weapon that he has become.


	11. The Way We Get By

**Author's Notes:** AHHHH. This is the first chapter I ever wrote for this story and have been waiting since two Christmases ago to post it so I hope you like it …it's my baby.

Forward, Weasley angst!

-dws

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Dad_

_Who always keeps on truckin'._

_And also for Aurelia_

_Thanks for the wonderful review!  
._

**Chapter Fifteen: The Way We Get By**

Christmas dawns slowly, the sun creeping into the clouds in an almost apologetic manner. Ginny Weasley watches from her window, sitting in her customary position. Her feet dangle outside in the cold, snowflakes piling up on her warm slippers. She leans her forehead against the cool pane, her eyes following the sun's ascent.

A soft meow interrupts the silence, and she smiles down at a bewildered Crookshanks. The orange tabby purrs and leaps gracefully onto her bedside table, languidly rubbing his head against her side. "Happy Christmas, Crookshanks," she whispers, dropping a light kiss on his head. He licks her palm in reply and hops down back onto the floor, padding from the room and into the hallway. As his footsteps fade, the heavier steps of something else replace them – Charlie pokes his head in her door and grins.

"Happy Christmas, Gin!" He cries, planting a big, sloppy kiss on her temple. "I'm surprised to see you up so early. Little Miss Night-Owl shouldn't even be _moving_ for another three hours."

She rolls her eyes fondly at him, pulling her feet from the window and slipping back onto the floor. She wraps her arms around her big brother in a bear hug and smacks his cheek lightly. "It's Christmas, Charlie," she tells him lightly. "_Every_one wakes up early on Christmas."

Charlie laughs and slings his arm around her shoulders, steering her towards the kitchen. Ginny smiles firmly, deciding that even though her brother is gone and her best friend is gone and her boyfriend is gone, _she_ is going to be right here, at the Burrow, and enjoy the holiday.

It is the least she can do for her Mum. They'd been fighting so much lately and Ginny really, really wants to have a nice, family holiday for once.

"Apple or pumpkin pie?" Charlie asks as she hands him a warm cup of hot chocolate.

"Depends," she returns easily, "Warm or cold?"

"Doesn't matter. Either one."

"Well, if it's cold then pumpkin. But if it were warm, I'd go with apple. Nothing beats warm apple pie." Charlie nods, seemingly in agreement, and takes a long sip of his drink as Ginny contemplates her question. Then she grins and asks in a deceptively light tone, "A weekend with Phlegm and Bill in Paris or detention with Filch?"

Charlie winces, tossing her a glare. "Why d'you always give me hard ones?" He whines, heaving a sigh and gloomily searching his hot chocolate for the answer. "I suppose … I suppose I'd go for the detention. Because at least then I'd have had the fun of doing whatever it was I got in trouble for."

"Yeah, and you wouldn't have to watch Bill and Fleur molest each other all the time," Ginny agrees, making a face and shuddering as she sips her warm drink. "He doesn't just _kiss_ her, he eats her face."

Her big brother snorts and ruffles her hair, grinning roguishly. "Sure – but if I was in Bill's position, I'm sure I'd be doing the same thing." Ginny arches an eyebrow, surprised that Charlie is taking the high road when usually he's content to wade through the water. "After all," he continues, "_look_ at Fleur."

"I _knew_ you weren't just being nice!" Ginny splutters as Charlie stands. "Ugh! She's your sister now – lusting after her is illegal."

"Our babies' chromosomes would be just _fine_, thank you," Charlie tells his little sister with a teasing grin. "Aw, lighten up, Gin. Fleur's not my type. She's too … tame."

"She was a Triwizard Champion," Ginny points out.

"Are you _trying_ to make me fancy her?" He asks, rolling his eyes as he pours another cup of hot chocolate. Ginny shakes her head, shrugging, and slouches in her chair. She glances outside, watching as the snow drifts from the clouds and lands lightly on leaves' of heavy-laden trees. She imagines herself, quite suddenly, as one of those trees: all of her worries and problems are so small, so light, and yet they keep piling up until she feels as though her branches are breaking from the weight of them.

Charlie, seeing her expression turn suddenly sober, sits down beside her and asks, "A duel against Mad-Eye Moody with Neville Longbottom as your second, or a fist-fight with Ron?"

Ginny laughs, tearing her eyes from the scenery and smiling at Charlie. They've grown so close, Ginny realizes, because they've both been left behind. "A duel against Moody, definitely," she tells him. "Ron is – was – is quite buff nowadays. I think he's been working out to make himself better-looking for Hermione." She laughs sheepishly. "And anyway, I'm better with a wand than with my fists."

"You can say that again," Charlie teases, taking her empty cup from her hand and placing his full one in her hands. She flashes him a smile and he winks.

"I'm better with a wand than with my fists," she repeats obediently with a cheeky smile. "What about … aha! A day at the bookstore with Hermione, or an afternoon cooking with Mum?"

Before he can answer, however, both are startled by a sudden _slam_ from outside the kitchen door. After a moment, Arthur Weasley enters the kitchen, his arm around his wife's shoulder. They are beaming at their two children. "Fred and George said they would stop by for presents," he tells them all as Molly hurries towards the cupboard to make some coffee. "Greedy lot."

Molly, smiling fondly, hands Arthur his coffee and makes a cup for herself. "Well, let's head towards the living room; I'm not going to wait all day for your brothers to get here. It's nearly seven o'clock! Normally we're already opening by now!"

Ginny stands, making sure to smile at her mum, and then leads Charlie into the living room. They sit on the couch, Ginny's legs tucked beneath her and her sleeves pulled over her fists. "Is it just me, or is it cold in here?" She asks, shivering.

Charlie nods, rubbing his hands on her arms to get the blood flowing. "It is a bit chilly. Did someone open the door recently?"

"No one that I saw," Arthur tells them, shrugging. "Did you see anyone, Molly dear? Are Fred and George here already?"

As he speaks, the fireplace flares and a redhead in a bright purple dragon suit steps from it, followed closely by his twin in bright yellow. "Happy Christmas!" They shout together, flinging their hands in the air.

"Ouch! George, you hit me!" Charlie splutters, grabbing at his nose.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to stand next to a floo fireplace?" The redhead asks rhetorically.

Ginny rolls her eyes, grinning broadly at her already-bickering brothers and stands. "If you two keep arguing you'll never get to open any gifts," she tells them mildly, and then smirks as the noise shuts off at once.

"I thought we weren't doing gifts this year," Fred protests.

"I certainly didn't buy anything for anyone," George adds.

Charlie rolls his eyes at the pair and threatens, "Oh, then I guess I'll have to keep your presents for myself." With a cry of dismay, the twins hurl themselves to their piles of gifts and hoard them protectively.

Peeling one eye open, Fred gasps, "All right, all right – your gifts are beneath the couch."

"That's what I thought." Charlie's voice is smug and Ginny rolls her eyes with her parents, sharing a smile. "Are we ready?"

But Fred and George have already begun ripping through their wrapping paper and Ginny, with a laugh, follows them.

---

She's pleased with her inventory. She'd had trouble opening several of Fred and George's gifts – and there'd been plenty – because they'd hexed them so that no matter how many times she peeled the paper away, another layer appeared.

Still, she'd gotten a new shirt, and boots, and a lovely green sweater. She'd stared a little too long at the shade of emerald, because Charlie placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Looking around her, she realizes that it has been the biggest Christmas, gift-wise, that she's ever had.

Isn't that funny, when there are less family members to spend it with?

The living room is in tatters, wrapping paper and boxes strewn all across the floor. Silver tinsel litters all the furniture and the walls – Fred and George are having a confetti war and the colored paper seems to rain down from their fists as plentiful as the snow outside.

Ginny smiles, feeling both jubilant and sad. Quite suddenly, she misses Ron. She misses his goofy smile and sarcasm; the way if he were here right now he'd probably say something _stupid_ like, "Well, it could have been better, but I guess we did all right." She wonders what he could have gotten her – probably something horrid, that she'd never have enjoyed in a million years. Or maybe he'd have enlisted Hermione's help and gotten her something pretty, or at least useful.

But mainly, she misses her big brother and the way he always knew where she was when she was in the room, looking out for her even when there was nothing to protect her from.

"Well, this was a truly excellent Christmas," Arthur declares, standing up. "Mollywobbles, you've really outdone yourself."

Their children snicker at the nickname, and Molly turns bright red. "Well," she declares, glaring at each Weasley offspring in turn, "thank you, dear."

"What's for breakfast?" Fred asks, rubbing his hands together.

"Something warm, I hope," George adds cheerfully.

Charlie coughs loudly and claps his hands once, lightly. The family turns, Fred and George grinning broadly but the rest with confused expressions. "There's one more thing," Charlie explains. "See, I wanted to wait until after opening gifts because I knew otherwise they wouldn't get the attention they deserved."

Ginny rolls her eyes, smiling. "Are you saying that whatever this is will be better than our presents were?" She scoffs.

The second-oldest Weasley brother shrugs. "You said it," he laughs. "And now I have my last question for you, Gin." She arches an eyebrow, feeling suddenly nervous. "A Christmas _without_ Harry, Ron, and Hermione … " He steps aside, and the three people in question emerge from underneath Harry's invisibility cloak. "Or with them?"

Fred and George burst into applause, but the other three can do nothing but stare. Then, Molly bursts into happy laughter and envelopes the three sheepish teenagers in her arms, squeezing them until Ron mutters, "Oi, Mum. You're cutting off my air supply."

Ginny stares dumbly as the three friends embrace her mother, then her father. She watches them turn almost as one to face her. Hermione seems anxious, Ron cautious, and Harry … well, she can't see his expression, since his hands are deep in his pockets and his eyes on the floor.

"'Lo, Gin," Ron says at last. "Happy Christmas."

To her horror, she feels tears suddenly well up in her eyes and she throws herself onto Ron. She squeezes him so tightly she know that he can't breathe but doesn't care. He slips his arms around her middle and he's hugging her just as tightly. "Oh, you big, stupid, oaf-faced _idiot!"_ She berates, kissing his cheek. "You've waited all this time to come back and when you do it's for _Charlie?"_

He laughs. "I've missed you, too," he promises.

"That's _right_ you have," she growls, stepping away from him and embracing Hermione a little less fiercely, although no less loving. "All right, Hermione?"

The older girl looks relieved and nods tearfully. "I've missed you, Ginny. These dingbats have been driving me barmy with all their … _bloke_-isms."

They pull away, grinning wordlessly at one another, and then Hermione glances at Ron and steps away. "Well – we'd best go to the kitchen. I smell Molly Weasley's pancakes. After living off of Harry's cooking for the past few months, this is paradise."

She grabs Ron's hand – Ginny notes that her brother wraps his own fingers around Hermione's and smiles – and she is left staring at her shoes, which beats staring at Harry.

"Why didn't you – "

"Sorry it's been so – "

"No, I unders – "

"I wanted to write, but – "

They both laugh, but it's forced. Ginny runs a hand through her hair and says quietly, "Well, I can see that we've certainly progressed in our relationship over the past few months. You know what they say about distance."

Harry frowns. "It makes the heart grow fonder?"

Ginny shakes her head, laughing. "No," she disagrees, feeling unjustifiably satisfied at his fallen expression, "it takes a long time to get from point A to point B."

"Which point are we?" He asks, looking completely bewildered.

"C," she tells him dryly, and then pulls him into a hug. "It doesn't matter, Harry, it's a metaphor." She kisses his cheek softly and steps back, careful to avoid too much contact. His hand lingers on her arm but as she meets his eyes, he withdraws. "So this is how is has to be, huh?" She asks sadly, cocking her head.

He nods, not meeting her eyes. "For what it's worth, I wish it didn't," he promises.

She smiles, a little sadly. "Well, no need to let it spoil our Christmas," she tells him, grabbing his hand and leading him into the kitchen.

---

"Pass the potatoes, Mum."

"Ginny, could I have the gravy, please?"

"Oi, Charlie – cut me another slice of turkey."

Ginny elbows Hermione in the side and nods towards Ron, who is continually piling food on the brunette's plate. She rolls her eyes but smiles fondly at him, leaning towards Ginny and whispering, "He keeps doing it. I don't know why, but all of a sudden he's treating me like I'm – "

"Me?" Ginny supplies, laughing. "Be flattered. It's a Ron thing. The more he likes you, the more he treats you like his sister." She pauses, making a face. "Ew. What I meant by that was he gets more and more protective."

Hermione bobs her head fervently up and down. "Yes! Exactly! He's been treating me as though I'm glass or something."

From across the table, Ron glances up as though sensing that they're talking about him. He arches an eyebrow, spooning another glob of mashed potatoes onto his plate, and then shrugs. Ginny grins. "He fancies you," she whispers. "I mean, he always has, but now he_ knows_ that he fancies you."

"He didn't do this with Lavender," Hermione points out, almost sullenly.

"But he didn't really fancy Lavender, did he?" Ginny asks rhetorically. "He just sort of…"

"Snogged her a whole lot?"

"That's about right."

The two girls share a smile, and then turn to their foods as Charlie tells the table at large, "I hope you are all in the mood to listen, because I've got a little toast prepared."

Silence falls, and the redhead clears his throat. "Right. Well. Happy Christmas – "

"Bravo!" George cries, clapping heartily.

"Charlie Weasley: A Man of Many Words!" Fred chimes in, rising to his feet. "This calls for a standing ovation. Standing ovation, I say!" George follows suit, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

Charlie rolls his eyes. "Oh, shove it, both of you," he grumbles. "I've seriously got something to say." The twins sigh theatrically and fall back into their seats. "That's better. As I was saying, it's been a wonderful Christmas. I'm just glad we can have all our family here today – "

"Except for Fleur," Fred notes sadly.

"And Bill – you know, you're _brother_?" Hermione reminds him, glaring. "What is it with Weasley boys and that Veela?" she adds in undertone to Ginny.

"And Percy," Molly whispers. An awkward silence falls, in which Ginny and Ron cough into their plates while Fred and George whistle the Death Knell. "He's your brother," Molly scolds sharply.

Ron shakes his head. "He's a git," he clarifies. "No brother of – "

"Christmas spirit, folks!" Charlie cries desperately, throwing his hands in the air. "All I wanted was to give a nice little toast, and you lot keep talking through it!"

Ginny called, laughing, "C'mon, Charlie! Fred and George are at this table, did you really expect to get through a speech?"

"_Toast_," Charlie corrects, a touch sullenly.

"Toast," Hermione allows, before anyone else can tease him. She smiles at the second-oldest Weasley and Ron mutters, "Oi, I can make toast, too. Really brilliant, golden-brown toast at that."

Harry snickers at his side and whispers, "No, Ron, _toast_. As in, 'let us toast to Cedric Diggory'?"

Ron rolls his eyes. "I knew that," he says defensively. "I'm not _that_ stupid, you arse, I was _kidding_."

Harry claps a hand on his friend's shoulder and grins. "Could have fooled me," he joked as Charlie, resigned, takes his seat.

---

Ginny stares up at the dark ceiling, a heavy feeling of sadness suddenly overcoming her. "Déjà vu, eh?" She asks sadly. Hermione sighs from her position on the floor and stands, her shadowy form moving towards Ginny and taking its place on her bed.

"We're making real progress, Ginny," she whispers. "I think – we might even have them all by summer. And then all that's left is … "

"Fighting Voldemort," the redhead intones dully. She sits up, sighing, and wraps her arms around her friend. "I just … I'll miss you."

Hermione returns the hug and then pauses, shifting so that she can peer, in the dark, at Ginny's face. "You're not asking to come with us this time," she notes, somewhat confused. "I thought as soon as we got here you'd be packing."

Ginny pauses, realizing for the first time that Hermione's right. And that Ginny … doesn't _want_ to go. "I …," she trails off, and when she picks up again her words are slow, measured. "I'd love to be off with you three," she admits. "I might even be a help. But … you don't need me. I'd just be another mouth to feed, another person to look out for. You, Ron, and Harry have everything you need to do this right – brains, brawn, and bravery." She runs a hand through her hair, an almost nervous gesture, and sighs again. "And … going off to fight Voldemort isn't … it's not where I'm supposed to be. I think I _need_ to be home, at least for a while."

She's quiet for a moment and then asks into the silence, "Did you know I was allowed to join the Order?"

Hermione gasps, her hand mounting her lips and muffling her words. "You _were?_ I can't believe it! Your Mum made such a fuss when Fred and George tried to join, and she always seemed so protective of you!"

She nods, shrugging. "I know. I think … I think Mum knew that I would have gone crazy if they didn't let me join. I'm never called on to do a whole lot of important stuff – now and then they let me do some spying, or go on some of the stealth missions, but … it's more about being _informed._ They don't keep things from me anymore. It's really … refreshing."

"That's how I felt when people finally started coming clean to me." The girls look up at the sound of Harry's voice. Both he and Ron are standing in the doorway, grinning lightly. Ginny gestures them in and they pile onto the bed, until Hermione is nearly on Ron's lap and Ginny's head is on Harry's stomach. It is a position she hasn't been in since school, and she finds it oddly comforting. "We didn't want it to be like last time," Harry explains once they were all situated.

Ron snorts. "We didn't want to get another Howler from you, Ginny. 'I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TOOK OFF IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!'" he mimics, although the others quickly hush him.

"My voice is _not_ that high," Ginny hisses, slapping him lightly on the arm. "But I'm glad you're not taking off like that again," she adds. "It makes it seem like you're not … "

"Ashamed?" Hermione supplies, her tone suggesting that it's a statement that's been slipped into one or two of her and Ron's shouting matches. "I agree."

Harry sighs. "Well, weren't we ashamed?" He asks. "A little? Taking off in the middle of the night, not letting your parents know? Going against everything they'd made us promise at the end of last year? I _was_ a little ashamed."

"You're a better bloke than I," Ron chimes in. "I was just sorry to see the last of Mum's food." It's a nicely light comment and the group laughs, their conversation turning from somber to joking. Ginny finds that she's missed this sort of conversation with her friends.

She lets their conversation wash over her and realizes that Harry's hand is gently petting her head. She turns slightly to look at him, and he blushes. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'll stop."

"No," she says, grinning, "It feels good. You just – startled me, is all." He obliges, smiling almost shyly, and she nestles into his stomach, willing her eyes to stay open and knowing it's a losing battle. "Don't leave without saying goodbye," she mumbles.

"Goodbye," Harry whispers. Or did he say goodnight? Ginny isn't sure, and before she can ask, she's asleep.

---

She finds herself morbidly unsurprised to find them gone when she wakes up. She didn't really think they'd stay 'till morning. Goodbyes have never been Ron _or_ Harry's strong suit, and she knows that Hermione's protests would not have stopped them. She feels a twinge of loneliness, getting to her feet and padding to the window.

There are three specks on the horizon. She doesn't know if it's them, but she's grown to realize that maybe it's better to forge hope from desperation than sink into despair. And so she waves, pretending for a moment that they can see her and are waving back.


	12. The Fool

**Author's Notes:** This is tiny. But Draco just doesn't like to talk about his feelings.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For anyone still reading my stories_

_Even though I'm exasperating._

**Chapter Fourteen: The Fool**

Sometimes he hates her. Sometimes he hates everything about her. Sometimes he wishes that she would just drop dead.

Sometimes he loves her so much that it hurts to do anything but breathe.

Draco isn't an idiot. He knows what it means to be a Malfoy, to be a Pureblood, to be a Slytherin. He knows her duties and he knows his own – he's known them since before he could walk or talk or even understand what it all meant. He's never deluded himself into thinking that they all might suddenly turn into the warm and fuzzy Weasley family. He's not sure he even wants them to.

He knows that happy endings aren't in store for him, or her. That's not what kills him. That's not what makes it hard to move when he lays awake at night, legs twisted in the sheets, shivering and sweating. It's not what makes his stomach burn when his father says, "Remember who you are, Narcissa," and she simply arches a cool eyebrow, asking without asking, _What do you know about who I am?_

What kills him is that his mother is so busy readying for death that she's forgotten she's still alive. Blood may be thicker than water, but her blood is _hers_ and Sirius is never going to repay that which is spilled.

"Your stupid cousin is _dead_," he tells her viciously. "He doesn't _care_ what you do anymore."

She looks him in the eye, her expression dull – but it always has been. "He won't be dead as long as I remember him," she says quietly, her bright lipstick flushing from her face. "Goodnight, darling." She stands, moving in that silent way of hers towards the bedroom.

He can hear his father shouting and her cool replies; it makes him long for the days when she was resigned and cold and detached. "You are my _wife_," he can clearly hear his father shouting, and Narcissa simply laughs.

"And aren't I a lovely little trophy?" She asks.

Her words press in on him and he's furious at her for ruining everything, for bringing Malfoy Manor crashing to the earth, creating its own burial ground. For doing what he cannot – what he knows that he will not. For the sudden life in her eyes, the spring in her step, and the screams from her throat that he imagines he can hear every time the Dark Lord calls for her.

He tells himself that he hates her, but he knows that he doesn't. Not really. He clenches his fist to block out the pain as the Dark Mark burns on his arm. Draco smothers the noise of his mother's screams, burying his face in his Death Eater mask and tasting dirt on his tongue.

Years of training for this, for this moment, for this commitment to this cause—and suddenly, Draco realizes: he is, and always has been, such a terrible, terrible fool.


	13. The Anniversary

**Important! Authors Note:** This is a little different, stylistically, from the other chapters. It's my little tribute to Sirius, and rather than focusing on the characters who remember him, it's directed more at a character study of Sirius himself. I tried to show the good parts about him _and_ the bad.

Therefore! Do not expect much character development in this, or any real introduction to who is thinking what. You should be able to tell by the characters in the memory.

It takes place on the anniversary on his death, hence the name. Sirius! I miss you!

It's past tense for obvious reasons.

-dws

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Vanessa_

_Congratulations!!!_

**Chapter Thirteen: The Anniversary**

**Albus Dumbledore, 103**

He hadn't made the Sorting; Hagrid reported some suspicious activity in the Forest and he'd wanted to investigate—just to make sure. In those slowly darkening days, and the days he could see ahead, no door could be left open. A war was coming.

But not that, and not that year, so Dumbledore was sorry that he'd missed the most controversial sorting since Helga's grand-niece sat at the Slytherin table.

He remembered so clearly: Sirius Black sitting quietly, forlornly beside his fellow Gryffindors. He was stabbing at his meal with completely unnecessary force, staunchly ignoring the stares of his peers.

What a change! Now, six years later, that same boy owned the halls of this school, smiling and laughing at everyone and everything. Completely submersed in this new, vibrant culture he'd found himself poured into. Albus wasn't surprised; we are attracted to that which we didn't understand, fascinated by its foreignness, and Sirius' new, brightly colored world contrasted so sharply the cold, stiff home he'd known.

But nothing can be all-good, and Sirius suffered for the change. A new home, a new family, an old life completely lost in ashes—and now, shadows of that life haunting Sirius from the inside out, leaking through its tightly locked container and staining him; not in splotches but his trademark Black smirk, his hotheadedness, his easy confidence and lack of trust. In his blind loyalty to those that he considers his family; love that has long since been transferred to friends that are perhaps more deserving.

Albus rubbed at his eyes as Sirius' stared hard at the floor, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His whole body shivered, violently, each time he inhaled. His lips moved but no sound emerged, no sound at all except a desperate, broken silence.

He couldn't bring himself to punish the miscreant; no, for he was already punishing himself. "What are you saying, my boy?"

Sirius looked up, eyes red and wide and terrified. "I'm _sorry_," he whispered, "I didn't think—I didn't think—" He closed his lips, curling into a tight ball in his chair. "You can—you can punish me, sir, I know I deserve it—"

"What are you sorry for?" Albus asked softly, intertwining his fingers atop his worn leather desk.

For a second, nothing. Then, _"Everything."_

That was unexpected. "What do you mean?"

Sirius' eye snapped to him and there, in the silence that followed, Dumbledore could hear him snap. He heard big, tough, charming Sirius Black's inner core crumble into pieces and could feel the self-hatred that seeped out of every pore.

"I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for—for _me_, for being who I am, because I keep trying to be good, sir, to be like James and Remus and even Peter—but maybe less so for Peter—but I _can't_, I _can't_, I'm just like _them_ and I'll _always_ be like them, even if I don't want to be, can't you see? Can't you see? The Hat made a _mistake_, sir, because James would have _never_ sent Sn-Snape to the Whomping Willow but I did, I _did_ just like my mother would have wanted me to because she always said 'know your enemy so you can get rid of him' and I _know_ Snape, I _knew_ he'd go into the tree if I told him to because he's _like_ that, so _stupid_ and greedy when he thinks he can get something and I'm _sorry_,so _sorry_, so sorry . . . ."

Albus, ignoring the measures that Headmasters are _supposed_ to take in situations like these, rounded his desk in a second and had the boy in his arms, refusing to take the part of his parents that would have left him to cry alone. "Don't be sorry for all that," he whispered gently. "Be sorry for your mistake, that you almost hurt someone, be sorry for what you did to your friend. Yes—regret these things! But that very same regret proves that you are _not_ like your family. Would your mother, your father, feel sorry about what you did tonight?"

"No," Sirius answered instantly, and hatred filled every letter as he added, "They would be so _proud._"

"And there's your difference. You hate what you've done—they would take pride in it. So you are not the same at all."

Sirius pulled away, looking up at his Headmaster. "I'm never going to be forgiven, am I?" He asked, and his eyes begged honesty. "I'll never forgive myself, sir. How can Remus and James and . . . and Snape, ever forgive me?"

The honest answer was: Snape won't.

But Albus did not give that answer. Instead, he comforted, "You must earn forgiveness, Sirius. And it starts with a simple apology—an honest apology, in which you tell Remus many of the things that you just told me." He looked away. "Most of us are products of our upbringing, Sirius, and just because you are a very special exception does not mean that you won't struggle sometimes."

The sixteen-year-old stood, walking to the window and trailing his sore eyes across the landscape. "I'm never going to get them out of my head," he whispered softly. "_Never._"

Albus smiles sadly. "Then perhaps it is time you stopped trying, and simply learned to live with them."

Sirius, broken as he was, didn't answer, but Albus saw a slight straightening of his shoulders; and there was hope, in that.

**Remus Lupin, 16**

"He's going for it." Sirius leaned his weight forward onto his elbows, squinting across the Common Room at the spot where James had cornered Lily between a wall and the coffee table. "By Merlin, the masochistic prat is going for it!"

Remus, casually tipping onto the back two legs of his chair, raised a single eyebrow. "Wow, Sirius. That was a good four-syllable word just then. How long have you been waiting to use it?"

His friend sent him a scathing look over his shoulder, kicking out at the werewolf's chair. He teetered dangerously for a moment before tilting safely back onto all four legs. "Just because you like to spew ten-minute words that you probably made up anyway—"

From across the room, both boys heard Lily's incomprehensible stream of insults. James, battered but determined, allowed the words to bounce off of him and lay heaping on the floor, hands buried calmly in his pocket and eyes riveted to his shoes. Remus winced sympathetically, but Sirius simply crowed in detached amusement. "I _told_ him she'd say no," he declared empathically. "Bloody idiot thought he'd try anyway . . . I swear, he _likes_ it when she yells at him. _Such_ weird fetishes, our Jamesie has."

He turned to grin at Remus, but if he was expecting reciprocation he didn't get it. Remus stared at him for a moment, blinking. "James really does fancy her, you know. You get that, don't you?"

Sirius frowned. "Uhm, seeing as she's practically all he's ever talked about since third year . . . yeah, I'd say I basically get the point."

"And yet still you find it funny to watch Evans use him as her own personal punching bag?"

There was a second's pause before Sirius suddenly started laughing. He chucked Remus' shoulder in that slightly condescending manner which called for a defense—Remus slapped the back of his friend's head and ducked an elbow (only to run into a knee). Swallowing a startled, "Ouch!" he flicked his fingers against Sirius' unsuspecting Adam's apple. There was a long pause as the boy recovered, clutching his throat. "Prat! That hurt!"

"You started it," Remus returned mildly. "If you hadn't punched my shoulder—"

"That was a love tap! And anyway, _you_ started it by insinuating that I had the mental and emotional capacity of a first year."

Remus hid a grin. "Well, you _do_ have the mental capacity of a first year, but I never insinuated it . . ." he paused thoughtfully. ". . . except maybe when I made that comment about your use of 'masochistic'."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "_No_, I meant what you said about James fancying Lily." He straightened slightly as James, shoulders hunched and expression defeated, began the long retreat back to their half of the Common Room. Casting his pensive expression aside, Sirius painted on a carefree, mischievous mask and winked at Remus. "Time to play the feel-better game," he murmured out of the side of his mouth as James came into hearing distance.

"Oi, Jamesie. This ugly git just called me stupid. Defend my honor!"

James expression lifted, just a little bit, and suddenly Remus thought: _ah. He does have some tact, after all._

_. . . Still has the mental capacity of a first year, though._

----

**Ginny Weasley, 12**

She wasn't scared, Ginny told herself as her fingers tightened against the smooth ebony of the stairwell railing. It was too dark to see properly and she could hear a faint _drip drip drip_ from somewhere in the house and Daddy had warned her to always wear shoes because you never knew what sort of snakes had gotten into these old, worn-down houses. But the dripping was just old pipes and snakes weren't the same as basilisks.

Her sweat had the same dewy, sticky weight as chicken's blood and in the black it glimmered darkly against her fingers.

She'd lost too much weight since . . . _then_, and her little frame couldn't withstand the low temperature of the living room. She trembled violently, desperately tightening her sweater around her shoulders as she stepped off of the last stair and scurried through the terrifying dim into the kitchen.

Ginny turned on the only lamp and pushed back all of the curtains, ushering in what little moonlight she could find.

Expelling shadows did nothing to quench her fear; Ginny knew better than most that not all monsters are confined to darkness. Some prey during the daytime, when the sun is bright and cheerful. Not all evil could be purged by simply a hug and an _it's-not-your-fault_ because its residue clung to her skin, dirtying her—_sullying_ her—

She screamed as the weight of a hand landed on her shoulder, spinning away from her attacker and drawing her wand instantly. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, shaking from cold and terror, and prayed her voice wouldn't break as she hissed, "Get away from me!"

"Whoa, whoa. And here I was, thinking we were friends."

Ginny sagged, red blooming across her cheeks. She lowered her hand sheepishly and gazed at the tiles on the floor. "'M sorry, Sirius," she mumbled embarrassedly, and offered a week gaze. "I thought you were"—_Voldemort_—"someone else."

He had a haggard raised over his sunken eye and head cocked at a forty-five degree angle. His signature five-o'clock shadow shaded his chin and cheeks. Sirius' scraggly hair stuck mussed on top of his skull, pointing vicariously in every direction.

Ginny's lips quirked up. "Nice jammies," she said.

Sirius grinned broadly, eyes sweeping down over the pink pajamas. Unicorns and glitter were sprinkled across the wool, and the flashing buttons looked an awful lot like Pony Popsicles. "I'm known for my taste in sleepwear," he tossed the comment at her with a light sweep of his hand and she shook her head as her heart began to slow. "So," he began, spinning on a bunny slipper-ed foot and reaching into the cabinets for two mugs, "What has you up so late?"

She accepted the hot chocolate with a grateful nod and half-smile, sinking tiredly into a seat at the table. "I had . . . I couldn't sleep," she hedged. "You?"

He didn't answer at first, just looked into his cup at the spinning brown liquid as he idly stirred with his finger. "I couldn't . . . I had a nightmare."

Ginny blinked. For a second she couldn't think of anything to say; adults were never that up front with her, and for years she'd known Sirius Black to be the most murderous, fearsome criminal in all of England—perhaps the _world_. To think of him now, lying in tangled bed sheets, heart racing and eyes darting from corner to corner _just to be sure_ . . .

"About what?" She asked curiously, and then winced. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business."

But Sirius talked over her, his voice oddly cheerful—odd because it kept cracking and his eyes were glued to his mug, staring so hard Ginny was sure it would explode with accidental magic. "I dreamt that I was in Azkaban again," he told her. "I was looking out of the bars, watching . . . watching Voldemort kill James and Lily—Harry's mum and dad—and they were both looking at me and asking 'Why, Sirius, why?' And I couldn't tell them the truth, because I couldn't speak no matter how badly I wanted to."

Her voice was hushed, fear forgotten as she reached out to touch his arm. "What happened then?" She queried.

"Then they died." He looked up at her then, and smiled sadly. "And never knew the truth."

Ginny's little heart swelled in her chest and she pushed aside her hot chocolate mug. Trying to comfort him in the only way that she knew how, Ginny climbed into his lap, arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. "It's okay," she told him, the way that her Daddy had told her after . . . _that_. "You don't have to be scared anymore—I think that Harry's Mum and Dad know that you didn't tell on them. I think that they're watching you right now and they know that you're sad and it was Scabbers who did it."

Sirius studied her for a second and then smiled widely. "Let's hope you're right, Ginny." Then he laughed. "Well, I must say you've made me feel _loads_ better. Sometimes it's best to admit that you're a little afraid, and talk about it with someone," he added, shooting her a sly glance. "It's not bad to be afraid. Sometimes we have good cause to be."

He lifted her off of his lap and looped her hands around her neck, carrying her that way up the stairs and back to her bedroom. Settled back in bed, she watched him dim the lights and wink goodnight as he shut the door. Ginny bit her lip and then called out, "Sirius?"

His head was back inside the room in an instant, smile at the ready. "Yes?"

"Can you leave it open?" She asked. "Just a little. Just a tiny little crack."

And he did so, with a flourish and a goofy little wave that left her giggling.

----

**Peter Pettigrew, 17**

Sirius hurried ahead, face tilted downwards as he barreled through the mass of students obscuring the hallway. Peter struggled to keep up, his side-bag full of school books constantly whacking against his leg and leaving bruises. "Sirius!" He called, "Sirius, _wait_!"

For a moment, the taller boy paused, casting an annoyed glance over his shoulder. But rather than standing still for _just one bloody second,_ he quickly resumed his former pace. Peter issued a growl of frustration, lowering his head as Sirius had done and attempting to push forcefully through.

But no one noticed little chubby Peter Pettigrew, and he was shafted helplessly against the wall. He was about so resign himself to his fate when he felt a strong grip on his arm, tugging him back into the fray and propelling him forward. "C'_mon_, Wormy," Sirius' voice cascaded over his shoulder and tickled his chin.

They finally made it to Transfiguration, late as usual, and Peter sat himself next to Remus. James, having never conquered the art of whispering, could be heard clearly from the tables in the row behind. "What took you so long?" He hissed under his breath. "McGonagall had kittens."

Peter could hear Sirius' grin. "Were they cute?"

"Adorable. Seriously, mate, what happened? Get distracted by Matilda Brown again? Because you _know_ what her brother threatened to do to you if he ever caught you again—"

"No, no, nothing like that. Bloody Wormtail just had trouble walking down the hallway . . . again . . . "

Peter's ears burned with embarrassment, and he though spitefully of Bellatrix Black, of her arms and legs wrapped around him, her mouth on his mouth. A smug smile quirked his lips. _What do you have to say about _that_, Padfoot?_ He absently rubbed at his arm, where the fresh Dark Mark burned his skin. It felt like a secret. It felt like power.

"Well, Merlin, just buy him a stroller. Seven years and he _still_ hasn't learned to hustle."

He clenched his fists, pressing down on his parchment with more force than necessary. Remus shot him a sympathetic glance and lightly pressed his hand on his shoulder. _Don't worry about it, _he wrote on a fresh piece and slid it towards his friend. _They're prats anyway._

Peter took a moment to think as he dutifully translated McGonagall's neat cursive into his awkward scrawl. What was he supposed to say? _You're just like them_? _Don't worry about me, I serve a higher cause_? _Did you know that I've shagged Bellatrix Black_?

Sirius leaned forward, voice a nasty little buzz in his ear, "You made us late, so you're the test subject for tonight's prank," he informed Peter cheerfully. "Itching hex on the Slytherins' underwear. Should wear off in a day or so." He paused. "Oh, and by the way, I want my broomstick back."

The taller boy clapped his shoulder and then ruffled his hair, affectionately condescending. Peter didn't respond, simply replied to Remus' note:

_I know. Karma's a bitch._

His friend shot him a funny look, but didn't say a word.

----

**Molly Weasley, 41**

She recognized Sirius as soon as she saw him. Not from the pictures in the _Prophet_, no, nor the thousands of posters splayed across London. She'd never really let herself look at those pictures, never really studied any too closely because there is a monopoly on regret and Molly Weasley has it all.

She recognized the crazed half-smile permanently imprinted on his mouth, the slanted eyes that looked first for enemies and second for friends, and the tiny shiver that he let run through his sick, unhealthy body when he thought nobody was looking. These were qualities that she'd seen latch on to stronger men than Sirius during the First War; traits that had kidnapped and fed off of her brothers in the months before their deaths.

Molly could remember so clearly the Sirius Black of his youth; vibrant, tenacious, and doggedly cheerful. She recalled his tendency to wield his humor like a weapon, chopping worried weight from his friends' shoulders and taking the burden onto his own back. If she closed her eyes and just listened to his voice, if she ignored the desperate quirk at the end of every letter, she could almost see him and James, joking and talking in quiet voices in the corner of the room, ducking the eyes of James' wife as they plotted ways to make her—and everyone else—smile.

If only for a moment.

"Molly Weasley," he greeted with a shadow of his old charming grin. "It's been too long. How are you?"

She let him mockingly kiss her hand but resisted the urge to pull him in for a hug. For a second, she couldn't find any words to say to this man; this man whom she'd so willingly betrayed; this man whom she'd taught her children to hate, to fear with extra fervor because in the end he'd betrayed her, too.

"I'm—"

Arthur squeezed her shoulder and spoke into her silence, "Completely at a loss, with all her babies gone. You should see her, pottering around the house without anyone to mother."

She managed a weak smile. "Don't let him fool you," she heard herself tell Sirius, "He's just as lost as me; he won't tell you so, but he's been researching Muggle toys popular with youngsters these days . . . trying to bribe the children into coming home, I'll bet."

And Sirius laughed. Not the same laugh, no, but a laugh just the same. Perhaps just a laugh, perhaps more—whatever it was, it didn't matter. What mattered was what Molly heard in that laugh: _It's okay. I forgive you. This isn't all your fault. Maybe a little, but that doesn't matter now._

Just like that, Molly broke free of her husband and launched herself at Sirius' skeletal frame, wrapping him in a hug. She didn't cry, for once; didn't even feel tears coming. She simply stood, holding him, implying everything that she ought to have said all those years ago—_of course it wasn't you_—and whispered, "Whatever happened, you're home now."

The miraculous thing?

He didn't punish her, didn't stand stiff in her arms. Didn't look into her eyes and lay bare his suffering. Simply curled his arms around her and gave a light squeeze. And Molly Weasley thought: if my children grow to be this man, then I have done my job.

----

**Regulus Black, 11**

"Don't go."

Regulus' plaintive plea echoed in Sirius' large room, sticking in the corners to show up later in the dark. But now, Sirius simply slammed his trunk shut and locked it with a satisfying _clip._ Regulus tried again, stepping towards his big brother with hands clasped behind his back. "Please don't go?"

Sirius sighed, finally turning to look at the youngest Black. "I _have_ to go, Reg. _Every_body goes to Hogwarts."

"Go next year."

"I'll be a year behind!"

"So?"

His big brother sat tiredly on the top of his trunk, curling his legs beneath his bum and resting his chin on his elbows. "So, if I'm a year behind then everyone will think I'm some sort of crazy person and then I won't get a good job, and if I don't get a good job then—"

"You don't need a good job," Regulus interrupted. "We already have money. So you don't need a good job."

Sirius didn't look at him. "I can't live off of Mum and Dad's money forever," he said slowly. "After a little while, you have to . . . do it yourself."

Regulus pouted, collapsing onto his bum at Sirius feet. He frowned at his brother's ankles, trying to think about that argument. He didn't understand why Sirius was refusing him; he _never_ said no. Sirius and Mum and Dad always said yes to everything that Regulus wanted: yes, you can have some candy; yes, you can have that broom; yes, we can go to Venice instead of Lisbon this year.

But this whole month _everyone_ had said no. No, Sirius can't stay home. No, you can't go with him.

"I don't want to be without you," he begged.

Sirius' expression softened and he ruffled Regulus' hair. "I know you don't," he said, and then stood up. "What are you so worried about, anyways?"

Tears welled up in his eyes. He stared hard at the floor, trying not to let his big brother see because Bellatrix said that he was a crybaby. "Everything is going to change," he whispered.

He felt Sirius squeeze his shoulders. "Nothing's going to change, Reg. I'll be sorted into Slytherin with a bunch of blokes I already know anyway, and I'll see you during all my vacations." He drew his arm across his eyes, pulling tears off of his eyelashes.

Regulus bit his lip. "What if . . . what if you become like Andromeda?"

Sirius laughed, dropping a light punch onto his younger brother's shoulder as if to say, _don't be stupid._ "You think I'm going to fall in love with some Mudblood bloke?" He asked incredulously, and stooped down so that he was looking his little brother in the eye. "Regulus, what's the rule?"

Without hesitation, Regulus answered, "Family over self." Then he shook his head. "But you hate rules. You always say that the only good rule is a broken rule."

With absolute surety, Sirius dealt a gruff hug—a rare treat—and promised, "I won't break this one."

----

**Harry, 17**

"_I'm proud of you."_

_Harry turned, startled by Sirius' sudden voice. His Godfather stood framed in the doorway, a faint light darkening his silhouette. Harry took a sip of coffee and cocked his head, lips deepening into a frown. "What? Why?"_

_Sirius smiled, stepping into the dim kitchen and summoning a plate. "Various reasons," he explained cheerfully, "The first being that you've managed to attract that firecracker over there." He pointed at the ceiling and if Harry squinted, he could see through the plaster to where Ginny lay sleeping. He smiled to himself, a light blush tracing his cheekbones._

"_What can I say? I'm irresistible."_

_Sirius laughed, and it was more . . . whole, than Harry'd ever heard it. "Oh, boy. I miss you, kid."_

"_I miss you too."_

_He didn't look at Harry as he spoke, but Harry's eyes never left his face; he drank in ever wrinkle, every corner and spot and flaw. "You're a good kid, Harry, and you'll be a great man. I'm sorry I wasn't a better godfather to you; I'm sorry that I couldn't ever quite leave the past behind. But I want you to know . . . I love you. I loved you since your Dad first let me into your room and your Mum let me hold you—but only after I signed a contract, promising not to hurt one hair on your head."_

_And this may be a dream, but Harry doesn't care. He didn't care that this vision might only come from the deep recesses of his mind that still wanted—needed to hear it said. "I know," he whispered hoarsely, "I love you too." And suddenly he had to say it again, has to say it for all the times he didn't, "I love you, you're the only family I've ever had."_

_Sirius shook his head. "That's not true," he disagreed firmly. "You have so much family I don't know how you keep track. The Weasleys, Hermione—heck, even that Neville bloke, Luna, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Minerva . . . . the Order. These people are your family, Harry. Trust me—blood means nothing. I, of all people, know that."_

_Harry didn't answer. "I don't want anyone to get hurt," he whispered. "Everyone could be killed because of me."_

"_Not because of you. _For _you. War is war, Harry." Sirius pressed his hand on Harry's shoulder as he stood. "I just wanted you to know. I love you; don't forget that . . . "_

Harry blinked awake. His room was still dark, and Ron's snoring filled its walls. Dark days were ahead; war was coming. But war was not today, and not next month, and tiny rivers of light peaked through the curtain and splattered onto the floor.

There was hope in that.


	14. The Road to Heaven

**Author's Notes:** This is a _little _different tone than I usually use for Neville and Luna, but the muses get what the muses want!

I hope you enjoy!

-dws

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Paige_

_I'm glad the fight is over_

**Chapter Twelve: The Road to Heaven**

"I think that woman is sad."

Neville glances up from his book, eyebrows raised. He's long since abandoned his original surprise at Luna's decisive comments. Instead, he simply leans towards her, eyes following her finger until they halt on the familiar, pinched face of an older woman. She's tucked into a broad maroon hat, secured to the stuffed body of an old dodo bird—not the magical kind, but the extinct, non-magical type.

He considers silence, but knows that Luna won't let him stay that way for long. So instead he answers simply, "That's my Gran."

Luna blinks at him, a slow smile curving along her mouth. "Yes," she agrees with a sharp nod. "You look like her." Her soft, delicate hand presses against his arm. Neville's heart stops for a moment and he hears three full _tick-tick-tick_s until it begins again.

Sometimes that happens when Luna touches him, although he hasn't figured out why just yet.

He smiles, shrugging ambiguously and returning his eyes to the off-white pages of his summer homework. But the pages swim in front of him, long and tangled black lines that certainly _must_ form words and even sentences, although Neville can't for the life of him discern any coherent pattern.

He rubs his palms against his eyes and lets Luna clean his glasses for him. They settle back into a comfortable quiet before she says, "Is your Gran always so sad?"

Neville doesn't answer, choosing instead to let the sentence hang between them. He hopes that Luna will get the point; but he knows that she won't—or if she does, ignore it altogether. And sure enough, she dissolves his nice, pointed silence with an exasperated, "Neville? Didn't you hear me?"

"I don't think she _is_ sad," he says tiredly. "I don't know why she would be."

Luna smiles disbelievingly at that, and when she speaks her voice all tinkling and light. Neville's cheeks burn for no reason. That's been happening a lot, too, and Neville figures that if he can't somehow control it then he's going to have to tell Luna that they can't plan their visits together anymore because he's already clumsy and stupid and can't walk around looking like a tomato all the time, too. "Well, it's because her son has lost his memory and you've joined the You-Know-What and face certain death at every turn," she tells him, and only Luna could make that sound charming, as if she's just said 'You always take tea on Sunday'.

He doesn't look at her, desperately trying to control his heart and his cheeks and the way that his mind keeps thinking that Luna's eyes are blue and grey swirls, and sort of perfect if you looked at them in the right light. "Then yes," he says, his voice flat. "She's always sad."

But these words startle him even as he says them, and Neville looks up to study his grandmother's face. Her eyes are glued to the pamphlet in her hand, mouth a tight little ball that pin her cheeks to her teeth. Her lipstick veers off course at the corners of her mouth, and her dress shirt is too tight on her shoulders.

He usually thinks: _scary_ when he looks at her. But today, all he can manage is:_ pathetic._

Neville shakes his head. He always imagines crazy things like this when he's with Luna; she makes him do stupid things, things he wouldn't otherwise do. Sometimes it's like she lives in her own world, and whenever they're together he's living there, too.

"Luna," he blurts, "Do you think there's a Heaven?"

She doesn't react for a second, and her whole body is rigid. He almost apologizes for upsetting her—he knows she's shaken when her replies take more than a few seconds. But then, she made him talk about his Gran so he figures that turnaround's fair play.

"I hope so," she whispers finally, quietly, eyes downcast. "Otherwise missions for the You-Know-What would be awfully frightening."

"How do you suppose you get there?"

Luna looks up then, and manages a little half-smile. "My Dad says the only thing you have to do is love someone . . . or to be loved." Then she pats his arm comfortingly. "If you're worried, Neville, you don't have to be. Lots of people love you."

He's startled by that, brow knotting. "They do?"

She looks puzzled, cocking her head to the side as her eyes widen. "Of course! Your Gran, your friends, your parents . . ."

Neville forces a self-depreciating grin onto his face. "My parents don't even know who I am, Luna, and I don't have any friends." He can't look at her, now that she finally knows what a loser he is.

Suddenly he feels a sharp pinch on his arm and he yelps, ripping his arm from her grip. An angry red circle has blossomed on his skin. He rubs the smarting injury, thumb tracing soothing circles around its perimeter. "What was that for?"

"You're just the most ridiculous boy I've ever met," she tells him, eyes crossed in annoyance, and for a second Neville is actually offended because this is _Luna Lovegood_ telling him that he's strange.

"That's the pot and the kettle!" He defends, pouting over his wound.

Luna uncrosses her eyes but tangles her arms over her chest. "Well, you are," she tells him sourly. "And if your mother could hear you now, she'd say the same thing. Just because your parents don't know your face doesn't mean they don't know your heart, Neville Longbottom, and don't you _dare_ suggest that a parent can't love a child just because they haven't seen them all grown up! Don't you think they loved you as a baby? People don't give their lives for babies they don't love!"

A warm, sad feeling spreads through his belly at the thought. Neville looks at his shoes guiltily. "I know," he mumbles. "But sometimes I wish . . ."

"Sometimes you wish nothing," she interrupts hotly. "You and me, Neville, we've got the best parents out of anybody. We might not get to _hear_ 'I love you' everyday, but—but we've got _proof_ of it and that's good enough for me."

She turns her back to him, lips in a deep frown. "And anyway, _I'm_ your friend!"

They stay like that for a few moments, sitting in silence, and Neville's mouth begins to turn upwards. A strangely happy feelings starts to bubble in his chest, rising and rising until it's in his throat and he's laughing without control. Luna stubbornly doesn't turn to look at him, so he puts a hand on her shoulder and physically turns her so that they're face-to-face. "Well, your Mum loves you an awful lot, then." He paused, and then added, "And your not just my friend, Luna, you're my—you're my _best _friend."

Without hesitation or grudge, Luna's expression blossoms until she's beaming at him. "Well I think you're the nicest boy in the whole world," she declares firmly, and he figures that's just about good enough.

"So we're both going to Heaven," he decides happily.

Shaking his hand, Luna adds, "I guess we'll go together."


	15. The Ultimatum

**Author's Notes: **So, I set out to write a chapter about Harry and got … this. Hm.

Weirdly, I'm sort of proud of this chapter. Clearly I have an unhealthy with the Black family.

-dws

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Drew_

_Who I love, but also sometimes I hate._

**Chapter Eleven: The Ultimatum**

The ink splatters across Hermione's face and sweater, darkening her skin and lips. For a second, no one moves or even breathes; Ron's hand, frozen, dangles suspended by his shoulder.

He makes it halfway through "I'm sorry" before she starts screaming at him, her parted lips gateway to a stream of insults so high-pitched and tangled that Harry can't even understand half of them. Ron has managed a defense somewhere between "accident" and "you're overreacting" when Hermione abandons all pretense of verbal battle and hurls herself at him, shedding her sweater mid-leap and rubbing the wet ink across his face. He flails for a second before taking control, trapping Hermione's arms at her side and rubbing cheek against shoulder, succeeding only in spreading around the drippy liquid.

"You stupid bloody _prat_!" Hermione shrieks at him, struggling against his grip, "Let me go!"

Ron frowns dubiously summoning a tissue from the kitchen. "Are you mad?" He asks incredulously, tossing her over his shoulder so that he can use a free hand to dab at his face. "And let you assault me again?"

Hermione's fists pound against his back, legs kicking wildly beside his face. "Well, I wouldn't have had to if your inability to sit still hadn't ruined my favorite sweater!" She sends Harry a pleading look for help, but he simply shrugs, turning to her notes with feigned interest. "Harry! You saw it, didn't you?"

"Oh, sure, run to _Harry_ for help," Ron taunts. "Can't even fight your own battles, eh?"

Hermione answers only with a vicious stab with her fingernail, startling Ron enough so that she can wriggle out of his grasp. She propels forward with her hands, legs slipping neatly from beneath his hands before she lands in a heap on the couch. Ron twists to capture her again but she lashes out with a foot, catching him in the gut and then standing to leap behind the safety of the couch.

Ron yowls, clutching at his stomach and lunging for her. "Are you completely _mad_? It was just a bloody sweater, you daft . . . girl!"

Harry's eyes scan Hermione's neatly organized parchment, mind spinning idly as the battle plays out beside him. _Possible identities of R.A.B._, Hermione has written. _Rolfe Arthur Blaine; Richard Agatha Berkeley; Rudolph Ashe Blunker . . ._

_**Crash!**_

The parchment flies out of Harry's hand and into the air as if of its own accord; Hermione, arms clasped around Ron's neck, swings precariously off of his back as he struggles to balance with one foot on the silver tea tray—Harry watches as, almost in slow motion, the pair pitch forward. Ron holds one hand out to brace the fall and reaches the other behind to stabilize Hermione. He takes a few stumbling steps and then tips frontward, crashing pitilessly into a set of dark curtains. Instinctively, his fingers wrap around the soft fabric, even as Harry and Hermione shout, "Ron, no!"

The drape peels open, following Ron's and Hermione's motion. His two best friends land in a tangled heap on the rug; but Harry's eyes are glued only to the pinched, twisted face of Sirius' Black's mother.

Ron winces, extricating himself from Hermione and frantically tugging the curtain closed. "Wait," the painting begs, voice much lower than Harry's ever heard it. "Please—don't close it."

He looks uncertainly over his shoulder at Harry. Hermione struggles to her feet, brushing her hands against her skirt. "Why should we do anything for you?" She asks calmly, and secures a few rebellious buttons which have come undone.

"For pity," Mrs. Black answers flatly, voice laden with simplicity. "Your kind has that too, doesn't it?" She directs her words over Ron and Hermione to Harry, who's gone totally still on the couch. "You. Young man. You're—you're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

He frowns at her, unsure if she even deserves an answer, unsure if this isn't some sort of scheme in and of itself. "What of it?" He asks brusquely. "What do you want?"

Mrs. Black smiles—it's a horribly twisted thing—and asks quietly, "Only a word. Just one word from you. Can you give me that?"

He doesn't answer, just jumps over the couch and pulls the curtain to a close. "No," he says nastily, and leaves her in the dark.

----

Hermione sleeps in the master bedroom; Ron chooses the second-biggest suite down the hall. Harry takes Sirius' old room.

It hurts, to sleep among his old things, but feels strangely good too, as if he can feel his godfather there. He smells him on the pillows, the closet, and the desk, inky fingerprints stamped across half-written letters. One to Remus, one to Dumbledore, and a gambling contract with Mad-Eye Moody.

He'd never gotten to sign his name, just half an _s_ swirled in neat cursive at the bottom. Harry opens the drawer and finds a note, crumbled and worn, stuffed into the furthest corner beneath a wall of old quills and spare parchment.

All it said was:

_I know, and I forgive you._

Harry thinks of the painting downstairs and wonders in spite of himself what word she was searching for, imagines that this gift is for her. What could she have wanted to say that Sirius knew and forgave in spite of everything?

There's a soft peck against his window; it's owl post for Ron from Ginny. He feels slightly guilty—he hasn't written to her yet, hasn't been able to think of anything to say.

"I'm sorry I dumped you" seems somehow inappropriate.

His runner-up idea, "I have dreams about you that Ron wouldn't approve of" is hardly an improvement.

Harry puts down Sirius' old letter and takes the post to Ron; he's on the ground floor and has to walk passed Mrs. Black's portrait to get to the stairs—but he keeps his gaze set on the ascending steps and pretends he doesn't know that she's screaming for him from behind the silent curtain.

----

"What was Sirius' brother's name?"

Ron's voice is strained, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Harry looks up from the pan he's been watching, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich with his wand. "Dunno. Why?"

His best friend's fingers uncurl and he places a gold locket, heart-shaped, on the cold counter. Harry's heart freezes and Hermione releases a delighted squeal, throwing her arms around Ron's neck and kissing his cheek. "Do you think?" She asks. "_B_ for Black…" She bites her lip. "But we have to be sure, so we can know how to destroy it. I don't want to touch anything else. Who _knows_ what sort of freak curses this family might have placed on their valuables."

Ron suggests grudgingly, ears still red from Hermione's attention, "We could always ask you-know-who." Then he grins. "And I don't mean _You-Know-Who_ You-Know-Who, but just . . . you-know-who, you know?"

Harry stubbornly shakes his head. "You can," he tells them, "But I'm not going near that banshee with a fifty foot silencing spell."

His friends wear matching grins and then Hermione pushes passed them both into the living room. She pauses for a second, hands folded into the fabric, before rolling it back. Mrs. Black doesn't say anything at first, simply blinks at the sudden light. Then she asks, "What do you want?"

Hermione places her hands on her hips and sinks into a no-nonsense pose. "What was your son's name?"

"Sirius," she answers instantly, sounding puzzled. "Why?"

"Not that son," Hermione snaps impatiently. "The younger one. What was his full name?"

Mrs. Black beady eyes narrow as she studies Hermione's face, vision rolling across the young girl's steely expression, down to her set jaw and then back to the mass of hair on her head. Then she smiles. "Is this important information?"

"Not unless you give it," Hermione answers evenly.

The Black matriarch laughs (_more like cackles_, Harry thinks) rudely, clapping her fat hands. "Yes, I thought you might say something like that," she managed between bouts of laughter. "Well, I will tell you . . . but first your friend owes me a word." She casts a glance towards the doorway. "And I am not a banshee," she adds, tone louder and more harsh.

Harry does not appear, but his faint, "Yes, you are," can be heard from hideout in the kitchen.

Mrs. Black crosses her arms over her chest. "Very well then," she decides, "Until your friend pays his one-word debt, I'll give you nothing."

Hermione hesitates for a second, but Harry offers no help and so she shuts the curtain.

----

No one says much the next few days. Harry's whole body is tight, like if he relaxes his shoulders even a little bit then the dam he's built inside his chest will break. Hermione sips her tea in tentative silence; even Ron has stopped taking the mickey out of his friend and instead just stages epic sea battles in his tea cup using sugar cubes.

Finally, three days of this and Hermione breaks first. She's always been the least stubborn of the three. "It's your choice, Harry," she begins carefully, pushing away the warm tea and gazing evenly at him. "And it's not that I don't know how hard this is for you. But…" she smiles. "But if you're not willing to exercise every opportunity given to us, then we're not going to get anywhere. That portrait has information that could be invaluable to our hunt. To ignore this obvious fact is…ludicrous."

Ron, frowning, drops a sugar cube onto his tongue. "Listen, mate," he begins, "That stupid bloody painting is just that. A painting. Nothing you say can give it any sort of happiness. Meanwhile, _we_ can bleed the thing dry until we've got everything we need."

"That woman made my godfather's life miserable," Harry snaps at both of them. "Don't you get that she's responsible for that? I'm not giving her anything."

Hermione places her hand over his, giving a light squeeze. "No, Harry. _That_ woman did not. _That_ woman has been hanging on the wall, covered by a curtain, for over a decade. The woman you're punishing is long dead."

Harry clenches his fists, pulling away from Hermione. He hates that they're right, hates that he has absolutely no other options but to pull back the curtain and give her what she wants. But he hates the idea of Voldemort more, so he marches with businesslike certainty, rips back the veil, and says in a no-nonsense tone, "You give me what I want, I'll give you your word."

Her horrible face coils into a grin and she fists her hands in her dress. "Very well." She levels an eye at him. "Regulus Antonio Black. That was his name, poor thing."

Harry's heart constricts and what nears a smile catches the corners of his mouth. "What happened to him?"

"Well he's dead, now, isn't he?" She asks rhetorically, as if he were stupid. "Murdered by those crazy friends of his…a Peter something."

Hermione's voice is a pitch above normal, proof that her intellectual curiosity has been raised. "Peter Pettigrew?" She queries, reaching for a quill and her parchment.

Mrs. Black sneers her agreement. "I don't know why they let _him_ in, filthy rubbish. He wouldn't know the difference between a wand and a twig if it did magic tricks for him."

Harry nods once, mind already back in the kitchen, hovering over the necklace on the counter. He tried to imagine the many ways that one could destroy a Horcrux, if a pathetic Hogwarts dropout even could.

"Now my turn," Mrs. Black claims eagerly, leaning towards him.

"You get one word," Harry acquiesces hesitantly. "That was the agreement."

She nods as her wide, beady eyes search his face. "Sirius…" she whispers, "He's…he's dead, isn't he?"

That throws them all for a pause; Ron chokes on his sugar and the constant scratch of Hermione's quill grinds to a halt. Harry stares at Mrs. Black dumbly, his whole mind drawing a blank. Then he takes a deep, sharp breath and says, "Yes."

She withdraws, curling back into the shadow of her painting. When she speaks her voice is lidded. "Yes…" there's a muffled sniff. "Thank-you." She says nothing else for several seconds and Harry, filled with pity that he didn't know he still had the ability to feel, closes her curtain to give her peace.

----

She's subdued but cooperative after that, filling in the blanks of Regulus' life without aside or addition. But something about the portrait makes Harry uneasy; he can't shake the feeling that even when her curtain is closed she is watching him. Sometimes when he opens Sirius' door at night he catches her in the painting above her son's desk, silent and drawn. But she exits as soon as she notices Harry's presence and he's hasn't had the heart to ask her what she's up to.

But the day has come for them to leave; there are no more Horcruxes in the rusted drawers of Grimmauld Place. Harry's unexpectedly regretful to leave, clinging to the dusty dreams and echoes of the run-down building. For whatever reason he feels at home here, with the mismatched furniture and broken stove—he can't help but feel a strange fondness even for the bizarre family relics tucked into every corner of the house.

"You know," Hermione says, shrinking her suitcases and pocketing them, "We don't have to make this move permanent." She hesitates, studying Harry's face. "It would be…nice, to have some sort of…home-base."

Ron pulls his gloves over his hands, peering out of the smudged windows and at the snow. "I sort of like it here, to tell you the truth," he admits happily as a wide, goofy grin spreads across his mouth. "I even sort of fancy that nun's portrait in my bedroom. Whoo-ey, Harry, if you heard her talking!" He winked. "Doesn't sound very nunny to _me._"

Hermione casts him a sharp, annoyed glance. "'Nunny' isn't a _word_, Ron," she snaps. "And that nun that you just can't resist was also a well-known serial crusher."

Both boys turn their heads, eyebrows raised. "Serial crusher?" Harry asks slowly, unsure that he's heard correctly.

"Yes," Hermione sniffs, nose in the air. "She would habitually jump the Abbey walls and crush all of the plants in the surrounding area."

There's a moment of stunned silence as Harry and Ron stare at their friend. Then her lips begin to twitch—once, twice, and she loses the battle; Hermione's chuckle slowly escalates into contagious laughter. Soon the three of them are laughing, leaning on each other and nearby furniture to stay on their feet.

It's nice.

Harry clutches his stomach, marvelous soreness beginning to build in his abdomen. He starts to say, "Well, I've discovered my future occupation," when he's interrupted by a loud: "STOP!"

They do, laughter extinguished as Mrs. Black's irate face peers down at them from her painting. "Stop, stop, _stop_!"

Ron pokes his tongue out at her. "What's up _your_ bum?" he mutters.

She ignores him. "No more! Go! Get out of my house!" The painting's hands are shaking, and her voice pitch nears that which Harry remembers from two years prior as Sirius struggled to pull the curtain closed. "You don't belong here!"

"You don't have the right to decide that anymore," Harry snaps at her. "This is my house now."

That upsets her further and she begins to rock back and forth on her stool, clutching at her sides. "This is wrong, all wrong," she chants to herself, not looking at him. Harry takes a step forward, half-curious, half-concerned.

"What's all wrong?" He ventures carefully, advancing closer.

She lifts her head to look at him, eyes red. The paint around her eyes is starting to run. "You," she whispers. "You're not supposed—you're not supposed to be like this!"

Ominous brown specks cling to the bottom of her frame, fighting gravity even until they are splattered against the hardwood floor. "Like what?"

Mrs. Black doesn't answer at first, simply looks at him. She is becoming blurred, blended with the plain background. "Happy," she manages finally. "Why are you happy here? You don't belong here, Sirius."

Harry freezes before taking a full step backwards. "Mrs. Black?" He asks. "It's not—I'm not Sirius. It's me—Harry."

But she's ignoring him now, not even looking at him but through him. "You're my son," she pleads desperately, reaching her arms for him. Her fingers are only defined to the first knuckle; after that they blur and melt and stream down the painting to the floor. "Filthy blood-traitor of a son that you are—that you both are—you are my _sons_!"

She looks at Ron now, reaching towards him. "Regulus," she whispers. "You always did as I asked you. You were such a good boy." She wipes at her eyes, and smears the color on her cheeks. Harry can barely see her now, just a blob of color. "I'm not angry," Harry hears her say, but he can barely comprehend the words. Frantic, he plunges his hand onto the canvas. Mrs. Black's paint runs all over his hands and onto his arms—he tries to wipe it back onto the surface but it continues to run. "I never was. I love you, Sirius, and I'll always—don't be angry—"

Tears have filled Harry's eyes. "Hermione!" He cries, panicked, "What's happening?"

"I don't know!"

Only her face remains now, clinging to the canvas and staring at him desperately. Harry returns the gaze helplessly. He thinks suddenly of the crumpled parchment in Sirius drawer and says without thinking, "I know. And I forgive you."

Her quickly fading lips curve upwards then—not into the twisted, ugly smile that he is used to but rather something new, something loving and kind and simple.

Then the paint lets go, rolling down the sparkling canvas and converging in a puddle at his feet.

The trio stands wordlessly, staring, hearts racing and beating and tripping over their own confusion.

"Harry," Hermione ventures finally, but doesn't finish her thought.

Then Ron says, voice gruff, "You know, I'm sort of going to miss her." Hermione whimpers, wrapping herself in his arms as she trembles, as if her body is trying to shake off the memory.

"I've read—" she cuts off for a few seconds, catching her breath and her thoughts. "I've read that paintings like that can only be made of anybody because—because everyone has unfinished business. Maybe…" she sniffs, clutching Ron's hand in her own, "Maybe Mrs. Black finally finished hers."

Suddenly, Harry starts. Color is budding from a speck of left over paint in the center of the canvas; before his eyes Mrs. Black's portrait blossoms from the inside out, color covering pale white until it stretches from corner to corner.

But the picture is still, eyes frozen and back straight. "It's just a painting now," Ron mutters. "But Harry…look at her mouth."

She is smiling.


	16. The Ties that Bind

**Author's Notes:** I know it's been a while! I'm sorry; I've been without a computer.

Anyway, I fought a lot with this chapter, and I'm still not totally happy with it. For one thing, I don't like the end at all . . . I think I get the point across but it feels like it's awkward and missing something.

But the last book is coming out (!!!!!!!!!!!) and I'm scrambling to get this out before then.

So I hope you enjoy, at least a little bit. Don't be surprised if, the next time you read it, this chapter is heavily revised.

-dws

Snippets From The Seventh Year

_For Rupert Grint_

_Who got cute_

**Chapter Ten: The Ties that Bind**

Dinner, as usual, is an awkward affair. Conversation—alternately overly hearty and nonexistent—seems to sit heavily above everyone's head, like a water balloon mid-drop. Lupin and Tonks seem to be the only ones attempting to carry on as normal, and although she appreciates the effort she can't help but notice the awkward dead-ends and sudden topic changes (being as her Mum has long since banned "Order-business" from the table due to her daughter's presence).

Ginny, squeezed miserably between Professor Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody, stabs viciously at her chicken.

Tonks maneuvers around the food in her mouth and smiles across the table. "So," she asks gallantly, "How has everyone's week been?"

"Great," Mr. Weasley answers, eager for the conversation.

"Brilliant," Shacklebolt mumbles through a mouthful of chicken.

"Perfectly agreeable," Lupin pipes up.

"Been better, been worse," Mad-Eye adds in a growl.

"Just _smashing_," she mutters sarcastically at her plate. Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrow.

She places her fork gently on her plate. "What was that, dear?" She asks, tone dangerously light.

Ginny arches her eyebrows defiantly, inwardly gearing for a fight. "I said that my week has been smashing," she repeats. The whole table, it seems, goes still in the seconds afterward. The air feels hot and thick in Ginny's throat and it burns her insides, tickling her temper to a rise.

But Mrs. Weasley does not feed the fire that's exploded in Ginny's stomach; she simply raises a warning eyebrow and returns to her dinner wordlessly.

The words Ginny wants to say—or, more accurately, scream—converge instead into another ferocious go at her food. It's begun to resemble the insides of a garbage disposal, to the point of hardly being edible.

She can feel Bill's eyes in her hair and meets his gaze, silently threatening: _speak and you could look like my dinner._

"Well, it looks like we're all mostly finished; Ginny, dear, why don't you come help me wash up." Her mother's voice is tense and coiled, and something sickly gleeful springs up in Ginny's chest, knowing and anticipating the storm.

She stiffens. "Why don't you do it with magic?" She returns quickly.

"Because I want to speak with you," Mrs. Weasley snaps. "Now collect the plates." These words are a dismissal for the rest of the Order, and midst calls of "thanks, Mrs. Weasley!" and "Great dinner, Molly," Ginny's only allies have disappeared.

There's a moment's silence as the two Weasleys transfer plates and dishes from the table to the sink, and it stretches even into the first few strokes of the sponge. Finally, Ginny bursts, "Well go on and yell at me, then, if that's what this is about!"

Her mother narrows her eyes. "Don't you take that tone with me, Ginevra," she warns dangerously. "I am your mother."

"_Captor_, more like," Ginny snarls fiercely under her breath, dumping a still half-dirty plate into her mother's side of the sink. Mrs. Weasley fishes it out and calmly places it back in the water.

"That one's not done, young lady," she says, tone brooking no argument. "Now why don't you tell me just what's been getting your goat lately."

Ginny finishes the offending dish silently, scrubbing in slow and exaggerated circles. "Nothing," she sneers nastily afterward, "I've had a grand old time, cooped up here, watching all my friends and everyone I care about put their lives on the line while I twiddle my thumbs and paint my toenails!"

A tired sigh. Then, "Ginny, we've already been over—"

"No, _you've_ already been over it! Just because_ you_ live in a world in which women stay home and cook and clean and let the men do all the dirty work doesn't mean _I_ do! I am not a _child_ anymore, Mum!" She breaks off, breathing heavily, fingernails leaving scratches on the dish in her hands.

"You are fifteen, Ginevra Molly Weasley. You _are_ a child." Mrs. Weasley's hands have found her hips and she's abandoned all pretense of cleaning. "You are hotheaded, you are inexperienced—"

Ginny rolls her eyes, interrupting, "Oh yeah? And what was being possessed by Voldemort, then? Just a laugh?"

Her mother's eyes soften. "That's my _point_, Ginny, look what happens when you're placed in dangerous situations—"

"I was _eleven_, Mum! I think I've grown a bit since then!"

"Oh? Well how about last year, then? A broken ankle, and Merlin knows what _else_ might have gone wrong if it hadn't been for Harry—"

There's a shatter as a mug drops from Ginny's wet fingers, a startled, stung expression on her face. "You seem to be forgetting," she snaps, hurt, "that between Ron and me, _I_ was in the best condition! But _he_ goes off into the heart of this—thing—and you make no _sound_." Making no move to clean the mess, Ginny hurls her sponge to the floor and ignores the water and soap that slam onto her legs and t-shirt. "Look, Mum, I'm sorry if you wanted a daughter who is content to sit and watch, but that's just not what you got!"

She spins on her heel, shaking, and marches from the kitchen without another word.

----

In the days that follow, Ginny finds herself missing Sirius more fervently than usual. She can sympathize with him now. The feeling grows daily, that pulsing need to _do something_, pushing against her skin and grating on her heart, clawing and scratching for the surface.

With every passing hour the knowledge is cemented in Ginny's mind: she is failing. She is failing herself, her family, the world; each stolen breath is undeserved, as she has done nothing--is doing nothing--to earn them.

The thought burns in her mouth like a fag, ashes clinging to her skin and her clothing.

She slams her trunk closed ferociously, ignoring the soft _click_ as her door opens from the outside. Her mother's face emerges from behind the door. "Are you all right, Ginny?"

"Do I _look_ all right, Mum?" She snarls, losing her patience not for the first time. "I'm held _hostage_ in this _stupid bloody house_ while people are out there _dying_—"

She lashes out with her foot, knocking her nightstand over. The lamp there shatters across the floor and Ginny can feel something break inside, a dam of sorts, and it explodes from her mouth as glass upon cement. She can't even be bothered to support herself anymore, knees buckling. They slam onto the floor, onto the shattered vase, but she can barely even feel it.

Mrs. Weasley is there in an instant, healing her wordlessly and dragging Ginny into her arms. "I'm going mental," she whispers through the wet pressure in her eyes, and tastes her own tears on her tongue. "For the first time, I understand what Sirius felt, I get it, why he went after Harry—"

But she doesn't finish, overtaken by the ache in her chest. "I can _help,_" she gasps around the frog in her throat. "But Harry doesn't need—or want—me, and I can't very well prowl around _looking_ for Death Eaters—"

Another deep, calming, stolen breath. "And I wish that everyone would stop treating me as if I weren't aware there was a _war_ on." She makes a face and says in a mockingly light tone, "'Hullo, Ginny! How has your day been? Isn't the garden looking _grand_ for so late in September?'"

She feels her mother's arms tighten around her, and when she glances up she can see that Mrs. Weasley's eyes are closed, chin trembling and lips pressed tightly together. Ginny thinks for a second that she's about to be yelled at; when her mother finally opens her eyes, her expression isn't angry; merely resigned, and sad, and farther away than Ginny's seen it. "Ginny, I . . ." she trails off. "It's time that we talked. She slowly shakes her head, rubbing her eyes with her hand. "Listen . . . believe it or not, I _do_ know what you're going through. If anyone understands the left-behind-little-sister-syndrome, it's me."

Ginny cocks her head questioningly. "What do you mean?"

Her mother smiles tiredly, plucking at her apron. "My brothers, Fabian and Gideon. They were older than me by two and three years . . . I used to _hate_ it when they got to go off and have adventures without me." A little laugh slips over her lips, hidden in a breath. "And when the war started, I thought . . . I mean, I _wanted_ to fight, but . . . things got complicated."

"Complicated?" Ginny shakes head exasperatedly. "Mum, it's simple. I want to help. That's all."

But Mrs. Weasley carries on as if she hasn't heard her daughter speak at all. "It was different, back then, you know. Women . . . were just starting to break out, you know? And I thought this was my chance to . . . to _prove_ myself, to myself and to my family."

Shivers began creeping up Ginny's neck.

"But they didn't let me. I was grown by then—or mostly—at nineteen. And it got worse, when—" she breaks off, voice trembling, tears growing in the corners of her wrinkled eyes. Purely out of instinct, Ginny reaches across and slips her fingers inside of her mum's; Mrs. Weasley gives a small squeeze. "—when Gideon passed."

"Mum," Ginny begins.

"Shh. Wait. Let me finish." There's a moment's pause as Mrs. Weasley gathers her breath and her thoughts. "It made me itch to fight, his . . . passing. I wanted to hunt down every Death Eater that had ever even _thought_ his name and—do terrible things. But Fabian became . . . almost paranoid. He—he made sure he knew where I was at all times . . . he said that he couldn't bear to lose me, too . . . but I was so like you back then, Ginny. I just wanted to help; I wanted to prove that I could—and after Gid, I wanted to avenge him. I wanted then, the way I want now, to bring the whole war to a close . . ."

With a little shock, Ginny realize it's one of the first times she's ever heard her mother say: _I want._

"And then—when Fabian . . .well, you know . . . that did it. I felt like an escaped prisoner, and I threw myself . . . I threw myself into the fight . . . poor Arthur, he must have thought he'd married a madwoman. I grew careless, Ginny, I . . . I took too many risks. You—you're lucky, you know, that you even exist. I didn't think of anyone but myself back then, not even once I started having the boys. It was always about _me_, about . . . the family I had lost. But when I lost Will, I . . ."

Ginny frowns. "Will?" She asks. "I thought you only had two brothers."

There is a full ten seconds before Mrs. Weasley manages, in the most feeble voice imaginable, "I did. Will was . . . he would have been eighteen. A year older than Ron."

And there is something, though it has no name, that fills Ginny's whole person. Her fingers tighten around Mrs. Weasley's and for the first time since the summer began there is no anger in her, just a profound sense of loss and sadness as she thinks of the brother she has never known and never loved, until now.

"Ginny, I'm telling you this because I . . . I'm scared for you. I'm scared for all of you, of course, but . . . we're so much alike, you and I. I know my boys—they are all passionate about fighting, they all want to help, and I know that. But Ron . . . Ron will follow Harry anywhere, and that's why he's so deep in it. Fred and George have taken personal offense to the lack of laughter in the world. Percy—well. Charlie has always been one to root for the underdog, and Bill—well, he can't have you living in a world that isn't perfect, can he? But you—" She smiles fondly. "I _know_ you. You put your whole self into everything that you do, and you'll do the same with this war. You'll do what I did, and get lost in the fighting. Every loss will break you, and no victory will satisfy until there are no more victories to be had. And—just like I did—you'll lose so much that is important to you . . . so much that _is_ you . . ." She smiles tiredly. "It's not that I don't think you can fight, Ginny. It's that I know just how well you can."

She can't answer.

For once, Ginny is completely speechless. She can't even work it all out in her head; her emotions swirl and tumble and knot in her heart until she can barely tell which is which.

And then, looking up at her mother's grief-torn face, she feels her mind moving, pushing passed the forest of anger and restlessness into the crisp, clear September air. And she can see now, across the half-dead grass, can see farther into herself than she ever has before. She can see her mother there, too, younger and fiercer and ready and reflecting Ginny's own tendency to be consumed by tasks, her constant need to conquer obstacles set in her path. Such silly things, such as stealing her brother's brooms to learn to fly. In her mind, these things took over, controlling every thought until she felt like the victor.

Into her silence, her mother speaks. "But I can see now . . . my mistakes were _mine_. That doesn't mean they have to be yours." She takes a deep breath. "I know you have to fight, Ginny; it's not in you to not help. But do you think that, maybe, we could do it together, to balance things out?"

Ginny glances back at her own emotions, her shame and her sorrow and her anger. How silly, she thinks. How unbelievably silly. There is a little twist to her mouth as she acquiesces, knowing that sometimes she will go to far and sometimes not far enough, but perhaps in the end it will all average to just the right amount; and she inhales--the first breath that hasn't been followed by drowning guilt and anger.

She thinks of what she told Hermione the night of the wedding. _I don_'_t know who I am without you three. _It's still true; every step she takes will be a hesitant one, she knows, cautious and curious and new.

But that's okay, and that's expected--and when she trips and falls, she knows that there will be someone two steps ahead waiting to catch her, someone who _does_ know _just Ginny._

How can she not? For they are a reflection, ripples in the same water and branches from the same tree.


	17. The Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Notes:** Okay. I know this is inexcusably short, but I've been fighting with this chapter for a long time and am pretty happy with it now.

Unfortunately, my outline for the rest of this story was erased from my computer when it had a minor meltdown, so I have to redo it. All that means is that the next chapter will take a while (if you can imagine that…) but I am NOT abandoning this story, so no worries!

-dws

P.S. Deathly Hallows, anybody? SOGOOD.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Ms Peralta_

_Who kind of made this difficult._

**Chapter 9: The Slip of the Tongue**

On days like today, when the house is cold and empty and silent because Fleur already went to her nail or hair or spa appointment that Bill things he might have rushed a bit, after all.

He blames the job and the war and the culture clash; he carefully avoids factoring Fleur into the equation, knowing she will offset the balance in a direction he doesn't like. And anyway, it seems impossible that all the emotion boiling inside him isn't more than enough for the both of them.

On days like today, he thinks he might have to acknowledge her faults, might have to watch her fluid motions and acknowledge her tendency towards coldness; knows he grew up in an environment that never prepared him for her detached, aristocratic conversation and complicated gourmet meals when he would have just preferred takeout.

But usually he can convince himself that it is the job and the war and the culture clash. These things are bound to upset the routine.

If they ever really had one.

---

"I'm surprised to see you here," Ginny tells him, not entirely unkindly. Still, he hears that little accusation in her voice. "Should you be out with Phle . . . with Fleur?"

He gives her points for trying. "She's furniture shopping," he answers, pointedly ignoring the slip-up. Part of him has always thought Ginny would be the one on his side of all this, the one sibling who didn't fall prey to Fleur's veela charms and instead saw passed to who she really is.

He doesn't like to think that maybe she has.

"You didn't go?"

"I'm not too interested in the shade of our couch." He smiles dryly, counting on her to smile and pretend the joke was dry and not just flat. "Besides, I trust Fleur's tastes better than I trust my own. You should see her house back in France."

And Ginny stiffens, maybe a little defensively as she answers, "I'm sure it's a picture of perfection." Something in her tone makes him look around the kitchen, at the mismatched chairs and falling-apart stove, the pictures pasted haphazardly onto every free inch of wall space and permanent scent of children. His house won't ever look like this, he thinks a little sadly.

It'll be all clean, white-with-blue-trim, couches with cushions that haven't been disturbed in weeks. He can see Fleur perfectly, bustling around the sparkling living room, the wireless making soft noise in the background.

But try as he might, Bill can't figure out how to fit himself into the picture.

---

When she kisses him, her lips feel dry and his tongue feels out of place, like it has no right to wet them. So he pulls away, smiling a widely as he can to she'll think maybe he's just tired.

But Fleur doesn't take the hint, although he knows she can see it, and instead stands to move onto his lap, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "You zeem zo tense zhese days," she purrs. He remembers a time when her routines felt entrancing and not just old and stale.

"I am," he replies, the first surge of what he will not call annoyance streaking through his stomach. "The Order is running us all into the ground. It is a _war_, Fleur."

She frowns, getting off his lap to stand with her hands on her hips. "I know zhat," she snaps. "What do you zhink I am, stupid?"

"No," he begins, but she cuts him off too quickly.

"I 'ave put up with a lot for you, Bill Weazley! I 'ave agreed to move into zhis _rotten_ country with it's '_orrible_ weazher, and you sit zhere and call me stupid?" Her face reddens, hands slicing through the air with every furious word, hips swaying beneath her shoulders as she leans in. "Don't you condescend to me. I am not a child, I will not be treated like I don't know what iz going on!"

He realizes it might be the first real show of emotion he has seen since their wedding. So he kisses her and she fights him, and soon they are engaged in a wrestling match across the carpet, knocking the wireless off the stand, kicking pillows onto the floor and imprinting themselves onto the carpet.

Afterwards, Fleur curled naked in his arms, Bill thinks he might finally understand his place in this house.

---

"What are you doing?"

He freezes guiltily, feeling like a twelve year old who got caught with his hand in the Sugarquill jar. It takes him a couple seconds to remember that he is nearly thirty that Fleur does not have the power to punish him (sometimes it seems like the whole world is split into punishment and escape, and lately there has been no rewards for either). "Having a snack," he answers.

"Before dinner?"

"I'm a big boy, Fleur. I'll still be able to eat."

He almost can't believe she is picking at him about this, too-- last week it had been his messiness, the week before his so-called "workaholic tendencies", the week before that he caught her crying because, in her words, he "condescended her again". Sometimes it feels like every day dissolves into a fight about nothing that _he_ knows, but Fleur gets so riled up and upset that he thinks _she_ must.

"All I ask is to be able to cook you a dinner," she is saying when he zones back in. "And to 'ave you eat it."

"When have I ever _not_ eaten your dinners?" He asks, part bewildered and part annoyed. He can tell she is agitated, and he hopes there is more to it than just dinner. But Bill's learned the Weasley motto well: don't ask, don't tell, let it solve itself.

And then suddenly she is yelling and crying about how he doesn't need her or love her or respect her anymore and she gave up her life to be with him but he just doesn't understand.

As she is packing her suitcases, he wonders how it all ties in with one harmless little snack.


	18. The Best in the World

**Author's Notes:** I can't help it. I just love Neville and Luna so much that it's ridiculous.

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For Don_

_Who really is the best._

**Chapter 8: The Best in the World**

Neville frowns nervously as he notices the girl approaching—he can't see her face, because it is hidden under a wide-brimmed hat with a large tissue box in front (instead of the customary flower), but this alone (in addition to the rest of her outlandish attire) gives him enough evidence to be suspicious.

And sure enough, as she comes closer, he groans inwardly. "Hello, Neville," the dreamy voice greets, and he winces when she takes a seat beside him. "Oh—hullo—Luna, isn't it—of course it is, I knew that—"

She casts him a look. I know you did. I'd be surprised if you forgot. I didn't forget _your_ name." He thinks for a moment that she is annoyed, but she doesn't seemed ruffled and simply adjusts her hat. He doesn't speak, but pulls out the Drooble's Best Blowing Fum wrapper out of his pocket and idly fidgets with it.

Finally he bursts out, unable to contain the question any longer, "Why is there a tissue box on your head?"

Luna turns to him unblinkingly. "Why, in case I sneeze," she says, as though it should be perfectly obvious. "Or begin to cry. Or wipe my glasses. You never know when you may need a tissue."

Neville cocks his head to the side slightly, studying her face. "But you don't wear glasses," he points out slowly, feeling as if he's missed the joke.

She tuts, shaking her head at him sadly. "Yes, but perhaps I'll _find_ a pair. Tissues are by far the most useful household object … and who would have thought it would be such a lovely addition to headwear!"

"Lovely," he squeaks.

She turns then, so that her whole body faces him. "You're quite nervous," she notes cheerfully. "Who do you know that may be dying?"

The question throws him for a loop – not that he had any sort of sure footing before—and she reaches out to keep himself from tripping over his own surprise, despite the fact that he is sitting. "Er—no one, actually—it's my Mum and Dad, they're in the psych war here—" He clamps his mouth shut, suddenly embarrassed tat he's told her this piece of information. But she doesn't seem fazed; rather, Luna beams at him, lifting the brim of her hat so that he can see her whole face.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" She cries, clasping her hands together and reaching into her hat for a tissue. She dabs at her eyes.

"Er … is it?" He asks, frowning.

"Of course. My father is there as well, you see. Perhaps they will make friends. Wouldn't that be nice?" She pauses for a moment. "MY father doesn't know what year it is," she explains suddenly, her tone a good bit softer. "He doesn't know who I am."

Neville feels a surprising surge of sympathy and raises his hand to pat her shoulder but thinks better of it, because although he's certain that oddity isn't contagious, one can never be too careful around Luna. "I'm sorry," he tells her honestly. "My…" he hesitates. "My parents don't know who I am, either." He looks down at the wrapper in his hand and ignores the tingling in his nose.

"I can make a lovely swan out of that wrapper. Do you mind?" Luna holds out her hand. he sits up a little straighter, not wanting to hand it over. He isn't sure what the bizarre girl might do, but to admit that an old gum wrapper is important to him seems stupid. He sags slightly and puts it onto her palm. "Don't worry, you can have it back," she promises, and sets upon folding it.

In no time at all, Neville is surprised to see that she is right: she has folded it into a very real likeness of a swan. "My mother taught me that when I was small. She's dead now, you know, but I can still make these little swans."

The casual mention of her mother makes him uncomfortable. "Er—I'm sorry to hear that," he mumbles. "Tough luck."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he mentally kicks himself—because _how insensitive can you_ be?

But Luna lets out a shriek of laughter, unpertubed. "Yes, it rather is," she agrees jovially, as though he'd told a funny jokes or tickled her or something. Then, abruptly, she asks, "Do you believe it's the best?" He looks up at her sharply. "Drooble's Best Blowin Gum," she explains, as though it should have been obvious.

"Oh," he says. "I—I guess."

"Well you must like it, if you buy it," she tells him diplomatically. "But I don't imagine that _gum_ can be the best sort of anything, because there's no end to it."

Neville frowns. "What do you mean?" He asks. "Why do the best things have to end?"

"Well, if they didn't, we wouldn't appreciate them for being the best, now would we?" She asks. "For example, life is the most wonderful thing that can happen to a person, but we wouldn't recognize that if it just went on forever. As it is so long, sometimes we forget."

"Life's not always long," Neville snaps, more sharply than he means to. "Sorry," he mutters, blushing. "I just meant that—well—sometimes life is too short, that's all."

She nods in pleasant agreement as if discussing the weather or Quidditch. "And when it's too short, then we recognize it for being truly valuable, don't we?" She points out. "You see?"

He doesn't answer for a few moments. She is studying him unabashedly and it makes him fidgety; he feels like he ought to say something to distract her. "I think," he begins tentatively, "I think that to be the best, you also have to be the worst."

Luna looks interested. "How do you mean?"

"Well—it's only that—you see, as an example, Dumbledore, right? He's the best wizard that ever lived. But he's also the worst Exploding-Snap player I've every played." He blushes, realizing how ridiculous he sounds. "Never mind, that was stupid. It doesn't matter if someone is good at Exploding-Snap or not."

"It matters if you're in a tournament and you've bet all your possessions and wealth on winning," Luna counters smoothly.

He blinks at her. "Er—yes. I suppose."

"What are _you_ best at?"

He looks up at her so fast that he twists his neck. Neville winces, rubbing his hand along his muscles. "I—sorry?" He squeaks, and blushes again.

"I said, 'what are _you_ best at?'" She gases plainly at him and he feels himself choking on his own spit.

"Well—nothing," he tells her, surprised. "I thought everyone knew that."

Luna frowns. "That's silly, _everyone_ is best at something. For example, I am the best at roping Kroot-Pongles, and Harry Potter is the best at fighting evil wizards, and Hermione Granger is the best at reader very boring books, and Ron Weasley is best at chess, and Ginny Weasley is the best at making me laugh." She takes a deep breath, winded.

Neville keeps his eyes firmly on his hands. "Well—I suppose that I'm best at—Herbology," he says meekly. "But I'm sure there are loads of people better at it than me—"

"Oh, I doubt it," Luna declares matter-of-factly, punctuating the end of the conversation with a single nod. They sit in silenceuntil Neville hears his Gran's footsteps approaching and hastily scrambles to his feet.

"Well, that's my Gran," he announces with relief. "See you."

She gazes up t him. "Yes, I certainly hope so. I'll be here at the same time tomorrow and the next day and the next."

He blinks. "Er—right. Well, 'bye then." He scurries a few feet before she suddenly calls his name. He turns around to find her standing directly behind him, palm extended. The little swan she'd made is resting in the center, its head bobbing from the overhead fan.

"It's not the best I've ever made," she tells him, and then shrugs.

He surprises himself by saying honestly, "Well, it's the best I've ever seen," and pockets the little figure. "See you tomorrow, then."


	19. The Woman Chained

**Author's Notes:** Oh, how I love the Blacks!

Chapter title derived from the name _Andromeda_ and the story behind the constellation. I hope you enjoy . . .

Snippets from the Seventh Year

_For my father,_

_I'm sorry._

**Chapter Seven: The Woman Chained**

"It's a lovely house," Andromeda says, and Narcissa can do nothing but stare for several seconds. Her old sister arches a cool eyebrow, and Narcissa remembers what it was like when she was still a Black, cold and refined and superior.

Andromeda sits in the tea room as though she has been there every day of her life; Narcissa looks around for whatever house-lf let her in and stands rigid on the stairwell. "What are you doing here?" She snaps finally, lifting her heavy skirts and slowly finishing her descent. "You are not welcome in my house."

But her sister easily overlooks the comment except for a slight straightening in her char, and Narcissa can see traces of the woman that used to be Andromeda Black in the steam that rises from her tea. "Why, Narcissa, don't be impolite. Take a seat." Her voice is pleasant but steely, and it is such shock to hear the order that she obeys on instinct. "Excellent. Now, I have come to discuss an important family matter. I would have hoped to catch Bellatrix as well, but I am not surprised to find her absent. I know that our esteemed elder sister is often…" here, a sneer mar's Andromeda's usually stoic features, "…detained."

"Yes," Narcissa returns coldly, her tone a warning, "She _and my husband_ are often too busy serving the Cause to receive such unwanted guests."

"Well, aren't I lucky that _you_ aren't," Andromeda comments mildly, but the comment is meant to sting and Narcissa feels its lash across her cheek.

She stiffens, and when she speaks her voice is shrill. "And what do you mean by that?"

Andromeda brushes a stray lock of her shimmering black hair over her shoulder, flaunting the only physical trait that Narcissa has always envied and never attained. The Black family trademark that skipped over her: long, straight, envy-inspiring raven locks.

It seems that she was always meant to be a Malfoy. Blonde, pale, polished.

"Not a thing, I'm sure," her sister deters easily. "Now, shall we get to the matter at hand?" She pauses for only a moment before continuing. "As I am sure you have been informed, our dear cousin, Sirius, has recently become deceased—"

"Bellatrix told me," Narcissa cuts in. "I am proud to claimed relation to his killer."

"Don't interrupt," Andromeda scolds, and Narcissa's mouth snaps shut. Old habits die hard, she supposes, and Andromeda will always hold that authority over her. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Sirius has left us, and this leaves the matter of his will, which was delivered to me by owl a fortnight ago."

In spite of herself, Narcissa straightens, leaning forward in her hair. "I'm surprised that this should concern me at all," she says calmly, to cover her heart's sudden increase.

"As am I," Andromeda divulges frankly. "But you always were his favorite cousin—until, of course, that unfortunate incident at Draco's christening—"

She stiffens. "Lucius did not want him present, and you can _hardly_ blame—"

"Interr_uptions_, Narcissa," Andromeda says lightly, but the reprimand in her tone I enough to settle Narcissa against her seatback once more. "I assume that this was an oversight on his part—or perhaps not, Sirius always had an odd sense of humor … well, at any rate, he seems to have left you these."

She flicks her wand, and several boxes materialize before them. Narcissa does not have to peek inside to know what he has given her, and despite her utmost efforts she feels her heart constrict. "Oh," she whispers softly, barely daring to reach out and put her fingers on the warm cardboard. "Yes … his sense of revenge remained sharp, even after all those years …"

Andromeda arches a cool eyebrow. "is that what this is?" She asks. "I must admit, I _am_ curious."

"They are from our early Hogwarts days," she breathes, softly pulling back the lid and peering inside. "Letters—stories—notes—minutes from our secret club meetings—" their entire relationship is documented here, and she knows in her heart that this _is_ his revenge, this nostalgia that grows inside her.

Her sister looks impressed. "His sense of revenge was _very_ sharp then," she agrees, and allows a small and bitter laugh to escape her. "he certainly retained a little bit of Black, didn't he?"

Narcissa glances up sharply. "Don't criticize my family, Andromeda," she warns. "Just because _you_ were too weak to uphold the honor of our name—"

"Yes, yes, it was tragic," she interrupts boredly. "Andromeda Black, the bad egg … who would have thought?" here she pauses for a moment, a small smile on her lips, before asking in a snide tone, "But you defend against my comment. Do you honestly believe that the Blacks aren't vengeful? That we forgive our enemies?"

"Sirius was not my enemy, so do not insinuate otherwise," Narcissa snaps. "And no, we require that those who have wronged us give penance—this I do not deny. But I do not appreciate your insulting tone."

Andromeda rolls her eyes. "I was not asking for you to repeat every lesson our dear mother"—here her tone is moving and Narcissa's fists clench of their own accord—"ever gave, I was asking for your opinion." She pauses for a brief moment, a cruel smile cropping up at the edges of her mouth. "Unless, of course, you've at last completely submitted yourself to this ridiculous life and become just another pretty face for the tapestry."

"I agree with those before me," Narcissa says coldly.

"Do you?" Andromeda asks, her words disinterested. "Then I suppose you have truly become a Black: mindless. Congratulations, dear sister."

She springs to her feet, and a childish impulse to scream shoots through her veins. "What are you trying to say?" She asks furiously.

"Was my speech impaired?" Her sister returns calmly, her expression scornful. "I spoke as I meant."

Narcissa has no response, and for a few seconds they simply stare at one another, two sisters who have not spoken in years, every bond created between them severed and lying in a heap on the floor. "It does not," she begins frostily, "take _courage_ to forsake one's blood, Andromeda. It takes fortitude that you have never possessed to stand strong and uphold family honor when the whole world turns against you."

A small, sardonic smile spreads across Andromeda's face. "I see," she says dispassionately. "Yes, that makes sense. For it is inconceivable that the most noble and ancient house of Black might ever be _incorrect_ …" she laughs, and the sound sends a shudder through Narcissa. "I see that your mind will not be changed. Well, you are a fool, my dearest little sister. A fool and a pawn. Whatever other illusions you may have, I hope you know that to be the truth."

Both women look up at the echo of footsteps in the hallway. An irate Bellatrix and an unruffled Lucius enter the living room, still flushed and out of breath from the last meeting.

Andromeda stands then, reaching for her purse and stringing it over her shoulder. "Well, I'm afraid I have overstayed my welcome," she says cheerfully. "Perhaps we may continue some other time. Hello, Lucius. Sister."

"You're no sister of mine," Bellatrix sneers, but Andromeda simply laughs again.

"Your affection embarrasses me," she says, brushing passed. "Goodbye, Mrs. Malfoy." The words sting, although they ought not to have. Narcissa watches her sister until she opens the front door and turns around, offering a little wave.

Bellatrix crosses her arms over her chest. "What was _she_ doing here?" She hisses, livid. "How could you even let her _in_?"

Narcissa does not answer for a moment, her eyes locked on the open door. "A house-elf must have," she says distractedly, waving her wand so that Sirius' revenge shrinks to the size of a few peanuts. She tucks them into her pocket. "I came down for some tea and she was in the parlor. She wanted to deliver me a few trinkets—I'll dispose of them, shall I?"

She pushes passed her husband and her sister and presses the door shut. "Narcissa," Lucius says abruptly, his light tone masking a warning. She turns. Draco has appeared quizzically at the top of the stairs and she offers him a detached smile.

"Yes, dearest?"

"Remember where you come from," her husband advises. "And remember where you are."

"Yes, dearest," she says, but something feels changed, and she knows that her sister has started a revolution.


	20. The Mighty

**Author's Notes: **Ummm… yeah. It's been a while. I'm sorry. The outline was lost, and what I had written was lost, and it was a big mess, so… um. My b?

Snippets From the Seventh Year

_For the Hershey's company:_

_I love you I hate you I love you I hate you I love you._

**Chapter Six: The Mighty**

He is not a ghost, exactly.

He's not sure what he is, why his spirit is torn in two—one in the spirit world, one in the physical. He cannot explain why the living cannot see him and the dead will not accept him; but he doesn't mind. He is used to living like this—both here and there, one foot in the present and one foot in the past.

The half of Albus Dumbledore sewn to the living world stays at Hogwarts, seeing the school in ways he'd never noticed when alive. With his one eye he sees more than he ever had with two; with one ear he catches melodies that had before simply passed between one ear to the other.

But despite these things, it is his teachers that break his half-heart.

--

Pomona Sprout wakes at five AM every morning without fail. Dumbledore memorizes her constant routine: she makes herself a cup of tea, creates a lesson plan (there is no one to learn it, but she cannot break the habit), and spends the rest of her day obsessively trimming and weeding her plants.

It is only in her silent sanctuary that Pomona finds her peace. The humidity in the greenhouse makes her sweat and hurts her lungs, but trapped in its walls the stout woman can ignore the outside world. She farms her plants with particular concentration, noticing every flaw and demolishing every weakness.

If her greenhouse were the world, Pomona Sprout would be its savior.

Perhaps that is the point, half-Dumblebore muses as she sets herself upon an unruly patch of loudly weeping willows. Merlin knows his Herbology professor has never been skilled with a wand or spells; but here she is the master and commander, here the meek become the proud, here the simple rule.

"Easy, easy," the woman coos at her willow, running the tips of her fingers along the drooping branches. The tree whimpers, leaning towards her with puppy-like devotion. "There, there, darling," she murmurs, taking it into her arms and ignoring the scratches and cuts its bark unwittingly inflicts. "No need to cry, I've got you."

She closes her eyes and Dumbledore turns his single eye into her head.

From behind her eyelids, Pomona Sprout is not in a garden. She is standing at the tip of the world, looking down at all her ex-students and colleagues, looking up at the dead who yearn still for life—the children who never got a chance to know romance, or see the ocean, or say what they meant—and looking out at her green earth which stubbornly will not stop growing.

She opens her arms and takes them all in, the living and the dead, the human and the otherwise, the suffering and the scared and the sorrowful. All of these she encloses between her huge arms and squeezes tight. Her heart rips apart its own stitches so that there is room for everyone to climb inside (to safety).

"No need to cry," she whispers. "I've got you."

She opens her eyes to an empty green chamber filled only with one-half of a dead Headmaster and the sound of weeping trees.

--

Filius Flitwick and Septima Vector form a habit of taking tea every afternoon. There are no students, so there is no schedule, no obligations, no purpose to anything at Hogwarts and a standing appointment seems to make it easier. Fuller.

Dumbledore likes these meetings. He likes to listen to them speak in soft whispers, although there is no one to overhear; he likes when Filius attempts to understand Arithmancy and even more when he admits that he doesn't.

Nothing important is ever said here, at the tea table, between these two people who have nothing in common but their jobs and not even that, anymore.

Sometimes they don't speak at all, or are unable to—sometimes Filius simply stares down at his tea and Septima glares at the scones and they both wonder how it could have possibly come to this.

But today, Filius pushes his teacup to the side and murmurs, "Last night I dreamt that Hogwarts was on fire."

Septima raises her eyebrows, neither smiling nor frowning and yet somehow sympathetic all the same. "Even the stones?"

"Everything. The stones, the armor, the ghosts, the books, the tapestries, the Quidditch pitch, the cauldrons, the tables—everything up in smoke."

"So what did you do?"

His voice catches. He reaches for his tea and sits back against his chair, not looking at anything. "Nothing. There was no one inside. There was no one left to save. I sat on the grass and watched it burn until there was nothing left, and when it had gone I got to my feet and walked away."

In a uselessly tender gesture, Septima puts her hand over his. "How's your tea?" she asks.

--

Irma Pince never liked children to begin with, but she mans her post in the library with a steady fortitude that surprises even Dumbledore. The library is the only room in the castle that bears the silence with a veteran's grin; there is nothing new or dire about an empty library. Every morning, at precisely nine o'clock, Irma comes in through her office door and sits at her desk, flipping through the check-out log as if there were someone here to check out a book.

At ten she rises, and moves all the way to the front of the library. One by one, she removes each book from its bookshelves and dusts it off. During school she uses magic, but now, in the quiet, she does it by hand, lovingly brushing the cloth over every binding and shelf.

Dumbledore wonders if she even misses the students, or if she prefers this loneliness.

Every Saturday, Argus Filch stumbles in, freshly shaven, hair combed to the side. Irma lets him into the office with a curt nod, and he offers her fresh scones from the kitchen. They eat in a grumpy silence, bound in solidarity by their mutual enjoyment of the silence and the peace that rests over the castle, as if there is not a war outside, as if there is nothing wrong with the world.

"It's too bad," Irma says once morning, swallowing her scone and sipping tea with a sort of grudging admiration, "about the war."

Argus shrugs. "Easier to keep this place clean, anyway," he mutters, "without the students always running around, screaming and knocking things over."

Irma puts a hand over his in gentle comfort. "They fold the pages of my books," she whispers, and they both shudder.

--

Her leg hurts when it rains.

Minerva McGonagall cringes at the knowledge; it makes her injury cheap, somehow, like she's just some old biddy unlucky enough to suffer along with the skies.

Dumbledore is half-perched on her desk. His one leg swings back and forth beneath him, making no sound as it ricochets off of the wood. He tries to hear what she is thinking, but Minerva has always been a mystery to him. She's nothing if not stoic.

She stands, leaning heavily on her cane as she moves towards the window. Hogwarts echoes with its own emptiness; she is always surprised to run into another teacher in the hallways, and they stare at one another in awkward discomfort, feeling both out of place and interrupted.

Without her students, she is nothing. To whom can she recite the proper way to transform a cat into a useful quill? Who can she watch grow and keep in line with a sharp rap of her cane?

Those things sound silly, but they are her life. And yes, once Minerva McGonagall was more than her work—once she was a senior member of the Order of the Phoenix, and once she fought for all that was good, and once she stood tall out of pride and not out of habit.

But she is old, and she is tired, and she has learned nothing if not that fighting brings only death and victory is little more than a happy accident. The First War emptied her of that spark. She watched the Order cycle through members two, three, four times—recruitment was constant, since every day older members were… lost.

Lost. That was the word they used, as if whole lives had simply been misplaced somewhere, sure to turn up if you could just remember the last place you'd seen them.

McGonagall leans against the window. Her knuckles are white on the frame as she tries to push it upward, tries to open it despite the bad weather. A spell would unstick the glass from the wood but she cannot let go, she cannot reach for her wand.

Dumbledore watches with mild fascination as she braces her whole body against the stubborn glass, pushing upwards with whatever strength she has left.

And then it moves, and then it moves again, and then with a final shove, Minerva McGonagall opens the window and lets in the rain.

Her knee pinches and her face goes numb from the cold but she does not move. She does not close her eyes. She does not back away.

Dumbledore cannot explain her actions, and if he could have asked her, she wouldn't have been able to, either.

--

Charity Burbage is young, only thirty-four, and every morning when she wakes up she stands in front of the mirror and wonders if she looks older.

It seems like a stupid worry, but she's run out of other things to care about, run out of other reasons to get dressed in the morning. She cannot leave, because the first step she takes outside the castle walls is her death sentence; she cannot stay, because everywhere she looks is world that apparently does not want her, a world that, try as it might, cannot protect her from itself.

So she gets out of bed, and stands naked before the mirror, and when the mood strikes she writes lengthy letters to her mother that don't say anything at all.

Now that he is dead, or almost dead, or mostly dead, Dumbledore finds Charity much more interesting. He knows her now, in a way that was impossible to know her before; he knows that she secretly hates Aurora Sinistra for no reason other than the woman has perfect hair; he knows that she listens to Celestina Warbeck as loudly as she can because she is a _witch_, goddamn it, and this is a witch's music; he knows that she stands in front of the mirror and finds herself ugly not because of what's on the outside, but because of what's on the inside—muddied, dirty blood that she cannot purify and she cannot get rid of.

He knows that somehow, despite his disgusting hair and hooked nose and snide comments, she'd fancied herself in love with Severus Snape, because he was thirty-seven and twice as lonely as she was.

And he knows that every morning, as she looks at herself and imagines a new wrinkle on her face, she thinks of how disgusting he must have really found her, and how entirely pointless everything she's ever done has been.

Muggle studies, she thinks, her reflection blurred by sudden and unexpected tears. How unbelievably hilarious.

--

As a rule, Dumbledore rarely went to the Astronomy tower during life. It wasn't that he had no respect for the field, or that he disliked its professor; it was actually just a matter of his knees not appreciating the never-ending twist of stair, the way the door to the classroom never seemed to get any closer no matter how long you climbed.

But it's easy, now, to get wherever he wishes to go; he closes his eye, imagines a room, and when he opens it, he's there, sitting on Aurora Sinistra's desk and watching her peer into her telescope.

Firenze is standing at her side, peering up at the skies without the aid of tools. He looks pensive, like Firenze always does, and neither teacher looks at the other. "You know," Aurora says without glancing up from her telescope, "Canes Venatici isn't even by rights its own constellation. It's really just part of Ursa Major."

Startled by the broken silence, Firenze looks at her. "I've never heard of it," he says, mildly bemused. "Canes Venatici? The hunting dogs?"

Aurora pulls herself from the window and spins the telescope so he can look in it. "There, you see? Just their heads. Just a faint smattering of stars, there by the eye."

"I see it."

"I've always felt bad for them. They were just a cluster of stars, before, happily playing along in Ursa Major, free to do what they wanted. Mostly unnoticed by the world. And then somebody decided to fill in the drawing and ripped them from their world to make a new one." She bends over his shoulder and points to the northern dog's eye. "That's Cor Caroli, the Alpha star. It means Charles's heart."

Firenze nods and turns to look at her. Despite being half beast, he is her height, and they are eye-to-eye. He scratches his chin and tips his head to the side. "Who was Charles?" he asks. "Must have been important if they made his heart into a star."

Aurora shrugs. She tucks her hair—the hair so envied by Charity Burbank—behind an ear, and it catches the torchlight. Firenze can't seem to stop looking at it, and Dumbledore thinks: _Hm. Interesting._

"Nobody knows for sure," she murmurs after a pause, her eyes glued to the heavens. But there is no starlight reflected in them; they are too dull and faraway to become captured by the brightness she cannot hide. "Either King Charles the first or the second." She manages a sad smile, at last looking at the centaur. She cups his face with her hand. "Isn't that something? They stole somebody's heart and pinned it in the sky with stars, and nobody even knows for certain whose it was."

Firenze smiles, slightly, and gently removes her hand, holding it instead between them. "And the dogs?" he asks. "Surely they know?"

"The dogs," she whispers, laughing as a few tears spill out of her eyes. "The dogs are barely constellations. They weren't even . . . they were forced into creation just to complete the picture. Those bright, glittering stars had been free—freer than you or I could ever imagine—in Ursa Major, and then Johannes Hevelius came and shackled them to the Boötes constellation, putting them on a leash until they burn out."

She looks down, pulling her hand free as she walks to her desk. With his one ear, he can hear her heart beating, slowly, sadly, steadily. Beating because it doesn't know what else to do.

"Chara and Asterion," Firenze says thoughtfully from behind her, crossing his arms over his chest. His tail makes a soft _swish_ behind him as he moves toward her, hooves gently _click-clack_ing against the stone. "Joy and its companion, the Little Star. Faint, but brave, and in good company."

Aurora turns, looking at him in surprised. "Yes. You said you hadn't heard of it."

Firenze smiles shamelessly, offering only a slight shrug. "I feel companionship with those bound dogs," he murmurs, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the desk. "I am Asterion."

There's a wry twist to her mouth as Aurora answers, "Does that make me Chara?"

Firenze rounds the desk. He takes Aurora's hand and squeezes it. "No. You are the heart, glittering in Joy's eye, and carried by her and loved by me."

She is crying again. "And who do I belong to?" she asks in the quietest voice Dumbledore has ever heard her use. "Whose heart am I?"

"Never to me," Firenze whispers, his voice breaking only on the last word. She looks up at him and he makes himself smile. "You know it as well as I. Outside of these walls, outside of this room, you can't belong to me. Even in here, you shouldn't."

"But I do."

"Only in certain moments." He hesitates. Then: "You know, the aurora borealis is said be a reflection of the strange glow armor of the Valkyrior, who ride above battles and collect the souls of fallen soldiers."

Dumbledore is struck by the image: Aurora, gazing down from her impossibly tall tower, weeping over the dead bodies littered below as their souls float to her, guided by the light that reflects from her skin and stretches across the night sky.

Aurora meets Firenze's eyes. "And is that my fate?" she asks numbly, bringing her free hand to her cheek to brush a tear away. "Am I to be a valkyrie?"

The centaur looks away, out the window and up at the sky. "Better that than the soldier," he says.

--

When Bathsheba Babbling first came to Hogwarts as the Ancient Runes professor, she was thirty-eight, pretty, and married to a man named David. The irony did not escape Dumbledore, even then.

In those first years, she had joked often about their names, calling David her little adulterer, her greedy king. Dumbledore remembers clearly the way that man would smile, starting small and then spreading across his whole face, as he laughed, _yes, yes, I am greedy for you, seductive witch._

It was a normal relationship, and a happy one, from what Dumbledore could recall. They were happy.

Except of course that David was a Muggle. Not Muggle-born, and not even a squib. They had met when David had stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron. Bathsheba had been the bartender, pouring butterbeer and firewhiskey, and he had fallen in love with her the first time she asked him what he'd like to drink.

"Two of everything you have," he'd answered, to get her talking, and to keep him long enough to get her name and her address.

From there they had simply fallen, like every other couple in the world. And David came with her to Hogwarts, happy enough to live surrounded by magic without ever taking part in it.

That was all years ago. Now Bathsheba sits in her quarters, curled on her bed drinking cold cocoa, David's old record player humming a sad song from the dresser. Dumbledore watches her reflection in the mirror as she reads, scribbling translations in the borders, flipping through the textbook for the few translations that she doesn't know.

Of all his professors, Bathsheba is the least changed by this second war. Her students have stopped coming, yes; but then, she never had very many. Runes are not the most popular subject at Hogwarts and never have been. And, if he's honest with himself, Bathsheba never wanted to be a teacher, had come only because Dumbledore himself had turned up at her doorstep and begged.

"I'm not a teacher, Professor Dumbledore," she had laughed kindly at him, handing him a teacup. "_You_ remember my grades when I was in school."

"I certainly do. We've never had a Runes student like you before," he had replied, and David's eyebrows had risen above his hairline.

"_Runes_?" He'd asked. "Those wonky lines she likes to draw all over the place?"

"Ancient Runes," Dumbledore had explained. "A nearly-forgotten writing systems, the most ancient in existence—either Wizarding _or_ Muggle. Some of the Wizarding World's most precious manuscripts are in Ancient Runes."

Bathsheba had smiled. "If you'd give me some of those, I'll be happy to translate them," she said, shrugging. "Give me the history, the poetry, and the literature, and I'll sit for a year and never get up. But _teach_?"

Still, she had come, and he had paid her in quarters and in a yearly delivery of history, written in the language he had never mastered. She would live off of it for nine months, translating painstakingly every word until it was completed. Once, David had laughed, "She loves those things more than she loves me."

Now she was sixty-four, though she looked no older than fifty. Still pretty. Still buried in poetry and history that no one else could understand.

She stands with a sigh, pushing the book aside, and Dumbledore follows her as she moves silently through the hallways. He's always admired the way she could walk without noise, without even seeming to touch the ground. She floats into the infirmary and he understands where he is going, and scolds himself for being surprised.

Bathsheba is the only one of his staff that he has ever understood, fully, without doubt or hesitation. He knows by her sure footsteps that she has walked this route a hundred times, a thousand, and he knows by her distracted nod to Poppy that she hasn't stopped waiting for each visit to be her last.

She walks past the empty beds, past the medicine cabinet, past Poppy's office, and into a little room on the left. It's not locked. It's dark when she goes in, and Bathsheba does not turn on a light. She moves with memorized steps to the third bed on the right, and sits in the chair that has sat so long in one position that there are indents in the stone where its legs are.

For a moment, Bathsheba, Dumbledore, and the sleeping patient all wait in silence. Then she whispers, "Hello, David."

Dumbledore sits on the edge of the bed and waits, watching her face. It gives nothing away. "There's a war on," she begins, slowly, wonderingly. "Sometimes I forget. That seems strange, doesn't it? That I should forget something as monumental as a war? But it's true. I do. There are no students in Hogwarts and sometimes I find myself teaching to an empty classroom. Sometimes I wait until the end of the period before I remember that no one is there, that no one is coming."

Her thumbs rub small circles on the back of his hand. "The Order has me translating old texts, looking for answers. For new magic—or should I say, for old magic. Forgotten magic. Magic that the other side might not be prepared for." She hesitates. Reaches to sweep hair from his face with her fingertips. "I do it . . . every day, I sit in my—in _our_ room, and I read text after text after text, and I think: _maybe this is it. Maybe the answer is here._ But it never is." She sighs. "It never is.

"And I . . . don't be angry, darling, but I'm not just looking for them. I'm looking for you, too. I'm looking for a cure for whatever . . . whatever that _woman_ did to you, I—" she breaks off, breathing heavily, her hands shaking. "I'm sorry. I know you don't like it when I get like that. But you never understood, quite, what it meant—you don't know the things that magic can do. You couldn't have, could you? And I . . . I let you believe that it was mostly harmless, that this war was really just politics, spilling into a few violent skirmishes, but . . . you have to believe that I would have told you the truth if I thought that you'd ever . . ."

David does not stir. The last time he opened his eyes, he was young, his hair a dark shade of brown, and not the easy white it has become. How many students have slept in the sick bay without realizing he was there?

Bathsheba leans her forehead against their clasped hands. "If you were here, you'd say that this was what we get for marrying into myth. Bathsheba and David didn't have it easy and ancient times—why should we have it easy now?" She sighs again. "_Ihwaz._ 'The path is hard and lonely and there is no end in sight.'"

Then she stands, kissing his forehead, and looks up. For a breathtaking moment, Dumbledore thinks she may be looking at him, blaming him for bringing them here. Blaming him for the one time that he asked them to leave, to collect Alice and Frank Longbottom. Bathsheba had come back. David had too . . . but only in body.

Bathsheba stands. Leaning down, she whispers in a voice that only David and Dumbledore can hear: "_Perthro_. 'The beginning and the end are set. What's in between is yours. Nothing is in vain. All is remembered.'"

Then she leaves, moving with practiced motions through the darkened room. Dumbledore stays for a long time, staring down at David, and puts his one hand on the man's cheek. A voice says, _I am greedy, for you._

But surely it is just a memory.

--

Sybil Trelawney makes three predictions that year, and there isn't a soul around to hear any of them.

Dumbledore watches her, as her eyes roll back behind those huge glasses and she begins to tremble, and when its all over and she's back to normal, he wonders if she even knows that she was the match that light the wick to end the first war.

She looks down at her tea leaves, and a single tear drops down the end of her nose and splashes onto them.

Without any students to around to hear, Sybil murmurs: "Oh, it's all_ bollocks_, anyway."

--

Poppy Pomfrey was twenty-two when she learned that she could never bear children. Dumbledore remembers with clarity how she had looked, gazing at him with eyes just like her mother's, eyes that didn't understand what he was telling her.

He was sorry, he told her. There was nothing they could do. The doctors at St. Mungo's had tried everything . . .

Years later, at forty-four, Poppy had showed up at his door and said plainly, "I hear your nurse quit. I'm here for the post."

And once upon a time, there had been others here for her to care for: the children she'd never had, each of them with their foolishly broken arms, bloody noses, fever from eating Puking Pastilles. Poppy Pomfrey had bustled around them, mending their hurts and their wounds, giving them Pepper-Ups and quietly administering Cheering Charms, letting them rest when O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s became too much.

They hadn't been hers, not really, not even when she was the only one they'd see for days, when they were curled up in the beds groaning from a stomach ache that she could do nothing about except to give them Pepper-Ups every few hours to ease the pain. No; they hadn't been hers. But they had been borrowed, for seven years, borrowed while they grew and broke and let her put them together again.

They hadn't given her much, but they had given her _something._

They are out of her reach now. They are outside the stone walls, in a world lit by curses and blood, and Poppy can do nothing for them but stare out her window and close her eyes and will one of them to walk through her door and say dryly, _Hullo, Madam P. Got any Pepper-Up for me?_

She spends long hours looking out the window, boiling Pepper-Up for nobody. Dumbledore knows that she always had her favorites, and she packages bottles of healing potions and bandages and books of spells and directions for the Order, sending them by way of Minerva.

She has a cream for nearly every ache and pain, but they will never work as well away from her as they do in her presence: how can they, when they are made of her love and her desire to forcefully push all the hurt and pain away?

She has a salve for broken bones, and broken hearts, but not even Poppy Pomfrey has a bandage big enough to hold the world together, and so she stands in her Infirmary and looks out the window and watches it come apart, muscle and bone.

--

This is what he sees, when Cuthbert Binns closes his eyes:

_A big castle, seated on a throne of deeply alive green grass and surrounded by full, breeze-ruffled trees. A lake ripples in its front, oxygen bubbling to the surface where a squid sleeps, half-submerged and surrounded by dark black seaweed. If he is quiet, there's the faintest sound of music in the ear, just barely skimming the surface of the water, bouncing off the stone walls of the castle, weaving their way into tree branches._

_Inside, it is filled with students. They are laughing, jumping, playing, running, hurrying through the corridors with books tucked under their arms. But none of them are texts: all of the spines read things like _Tips for Troublemakers_ and _101 Games for Dummies_. The library is full of other such titles, and there are children in every aisle, all of them laughing and pointing. No one shushes them._

_In the classrooms, teachers are sitting on their desks, talking animatedly to their students, and everyone is attentive. Magic is everywhere, unfettered, surrounding everyone in its multicolor light, alive and independent._

_Every day more students enter the castle. Their first hours there are spent in a frantic, panicked haste, as they sprint from room to room, looking for a familiar face. They are all afraid. Sometimes they are older, sometimes younger; it doesn't matter. They are all afraid._

_They see him, sometimes, though he knows that he is faint, that he is just an outline. "Professor?" they ask him, bewildered. "How did I get here?"_

_He wants to tell them, and he opens his mouth in a sorrowful sigh, but he cannot make a sound. They are too far away. He wants to wrap them in his arms and tell them: it's okay. It's okay. Decide to stay. Don't come back._

_I came back, and I've spent the rest of my afterlife trying to get to where you are._

Then he wakes. He's alone in classroom, but for the half-ghost of Dumbledore. "I thought you might come see me eventually," he says, shaking the dream away.

"So you _can _see me," the Headmaster muses cheerfully. "I thought you might be able to."

"Only half of you," Binns corrects, and then startles. "Dear me, _is_ there only half of you?"

Dumbledore shrugs. "Yes. I don't know why; I died quite whole, with perhaps the small exception of my hand." They sit in companionable silence, and Binns tries to recall the picture of the castle.

Then Dumbledore asks: "Cuthbert, I've always wanted to ask. It didn't seem appropriate, until now. What made you decide to stay?"

Binns closes his eyes. The castle is in the distance, always just out of reach, even when he is inside. He aches for it.

"You know," he murmurs. "I can't remember now."


End file.
